Mr Monk and the Murder in Madrid
by Araeph
Summary: The story of Adrian Monk and Trudy Ellison! How they fells in love and survived their first adventure together. CHAPTER THREE: Trudy meets Monk's mother; Monk investigates a shady newsman.
1. Prologue

**A/N: As we _Monk _fans all know, Adrian Monk and Trudy Ellison met as students on the Berkeley campus, circa 1980. As we also know, they were married in 1990. A full decade later.**

**So...**

**What happened, exactly? A decade of dating? A continuity error? I say...drama! (Hey, I'm a writer; what do you expect?)**

**And so, I humbly present to you my attempt at solving this mystery. A college-age Monk will investigate crimes, alphabetize books, fall in love, and...well, you'll just have to see, won't you?**

Disclaimer: I do not own _Monk _or any of its characters, plotlines, etc.

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**Prologue**

_Rrring!_

A chair scraped back on the worn wooden floor. The man reaching for the phone paused, circled the date on the calendar in front of him, then answered the call.

_September 12, 1980. _

"Varón, old friend. You've checked in early."

He circled the day again while his friend muttered something into the receiver.

_September 12. September 12._ He tapped the date hard with his pen."Speak up, I can't hear you. Our phones aren't state-of-the-art like you government officials are used to—ah. You _have_ tallied the number. Let's hear it."

Silence.

The chair creaked as its occupant leaned forward into the desk. "Cut the dramatics and let's have it!"

A low, yet excited stream of Spanish followed.

In disbelief, he asked, "That's in _millions?_"

_"Pues, sin contar las monedas antiguas que están en la caja—"_

"English, please, Arturo. I have a date in San Francisco soon, if you recall." A low chuckle. "A date with a beautiful woman. Now, again. That's in millions?"

"Por cier—it is. To avoid suspicion, we should take it all before the end of the year. How is the work at the paper?"

"My day job is not as good as my real work, but I find it entertaining. I've found out much about the scandals of our occupiers. Besides, I already accepted that I would oversee this myself. The stake for me, it's…personal. You understand, you're in it, too. I just haven't yet found the right man for our dupe."

"Entiendo." There was a pause. "Actually, I'm not sure of that word…dupe?"

"Ah, you haven't been practicing your English lately. For us, it is one whose head is empty and whose hands want to be full."

"Full of money?"

"Or information. Either would serve to have him open the safe for us."

The man on the other end coughed, this betraying his age as his stern voice had not. "Gregorio?"

"Yes."

"You are only to watch her."

His pen dug a little deeper into the calendar date before he realized he might scratch the desk. The house was a sham, but the desk was nice.

"She is the only one who might guess. But I won't harm her, Arturo."

"Your word?"

"Mine as a gentleman of Euskadi."

"Fine, then."

"Shall I tell you how grateful I am?"

"I got the bottle of wine, Gregorio. And the watch. They were exquisite. But I would have helped without them."

"A true Basque patriot."

"Until Madrid?"

"Until then."

He knew that Arturo had hung up. But Gregorio sat there, dangling the receiver off the hook, eyes closed thoughtfully.

He had seen pictures of San Francisco, and he hoped it _was_ all sunshine there, or at least as much as in Spain. The picture he had of Magda was old. She would have changed, and he wanted to make sure he marked her clearly when he met her.

Only to watch her. Of course.

_Spanish professor,_ Gregorio mused. _At Berkeley. Smart, so the odds are that she knows about what's inside the safe. She has a rich husband, though, so she might not care. Ugh, I'm glad I'm the one going. Who else could balance our difficult Arturo and _this_?_

He glanced again at the date, and felt a pinch of hunger.

Gregorio stood up, looming over the small, lonely room with its rough wooden floor.

He looked at his rumbling belly ruefully.

_I should eat something before I…oh, yes, right. The phone. _

He hadn't hung up yet. His hands had been fiddling with the cord.

Gregorio looked down in surprise. In front of him, a shining black noose rested, perfect, on the table. His hands had twisted it while he'd been thinking.

He hadn't even noticed that he'd done it, this time.

"What you two get up to when I'm not looking," he said affectionately. "Imagine what would happen if I didn't rein you in?"

Down came the receiver, Bang!, and Gregorio went to his dinner with a laugh.

* * *

Thanks for reading (and reviewing, if you are so kind)! I hope that I whetted your appetite for the next installment.


	2. The Man at the Phone

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A/N: Many thanks to those of you who reviewed! I welcome comments, questions, concrit...scathing insults, too, but only because of my perverse sense of humor.

Disclaimer: I do not own _Monk _or any of its characters, plotlines, etc.

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Chapter One: The Man at the Phone 

A most peculiar thing was occurring on the Berkeley college campus. To say it was unsettling would not begin to touch the matter. More than one student who saw it take place would later describe it as a surreal event, not quite on the same plane of reality as all other life experience. Had there not been witnesses up and down the corridor, everyone would have sooner sworn to hallucinating than to seeing…this.

Adrian Monk was walking through the dorm, whistling!

Blissfully oblivious to the stares and snickers sent his way, the oddball senior made his way jauntily through the hallways, practically skipping down the stairs on the way to his room.

"Greg!" whispered a nervous classmate. "He's…smiling."

"You can't smile and whistle at the same time!"

"No, you can't…but he _is_!"

"Do y'think he's finally snapped?" wondered another.

"I dunno. I was his roommate last year. Let me tell you, that guy was kinda strange. He could make a clown cry. Adrian, happy? I've never seen it."

One student craned her neck, trying vainly to see if anyone had watched Monk on the stairwell. "Hey, does anyone know what's happened to Captain Cool?" she asked loudly. "Anyone?"

Had they spotted Trudy's ex-boyfriend glowering in the vestibule, all but daring them to ask why his cocky grin was gone, they might have realized who had stolen it and was walking away with it plastered all over his face. But since none of the students was Adrian Monk, they left the mystery unsolved, and the culprit got clean—squeaky clean—away.

Monk's enthusiastic step increased as he reached the bottom of the stairs. Fifteen minutes until the second date. His shoes were shined, his hair was combed…he'd even spent part of the morning meticulously picking out every piece of pocket lint from his best slacks.

It had to be perfect…but not in the same way it had before.

As Monk neared his dorm room, he realized that, at least for the evening, the cursed urge to control his small part of the world had loosened. It might be his bully, but he was no longer its slave. He was anxious, yes—he had double-checked his shoelaces and all the rest—but not just because the planet would tilt the wrong way if he didn't. It was a new sensation, and very wonderful.

He bent down again. There. It had to be perfect. It had to be perfect for _her_.

His blue-moon first date with Trudy Ellison had been an almost out-of-body experience. He had been dimly aware of a Willie Nelson concert playing in the background, but even though he recalled the lyrics later, all he could see in his memory were the lights playing over her hair as she kissed him on the cheek. He hadn't even been a _real_ boyfriend to her! He hadn't yawned and stretched his arm around her, or sloppily mouthed song lyrics, or begged her to make out with him in the dark, all three of which the man sitting in front of them had done to his own girl, and with gusto.

_"I'm sorry I'm not like him, Trudy," _Monk had tried to explain._ "Drew probably tried that all the time, too. I just—if I did that to you now, I wouldn't see your eyes light up at the music."_

For some reason, she'd kissed him anyway. He couldn't figure it out!

He'd kept the lipstick smudge on his face all night, hoping Bernard wouldn't see—or maybe hoping that he would. And now, a second date? The blue moon was shining on a four-leafed clover on a very cold day in August.

_Quickly, now. Ten minutes left, _the mechanical part of his mind interrupted him.

He straightened his shirt and zipped up his sweater.

Monk always knocked on the door to his room, in case there was a project in progress. His roommate was cheery, a little too much so, but Bernard did not like company while he worked. That, Monk understood…but today, in his haste, he completely forgot.

He threw open the door, about to whistle another tune—

—and was clotheslined on entry, right under the chin.

"Hggp!"

Slimy ribbons hung on a line across the door, attacking his clean shirt like eels.

"Adrian! You were supposed to knock!" a voice berated from inside the room.

"Gah! Blech! Thbhb," answered Monk. The next instant, he was flailing with his hands, trying vainly to brush back the dripping, curling mass of...

...film?

Through his panic attack, Monk's fingers somehow registered the tiny holes that perforated the sides of the strips.

The apology about to bubble out of his mouth evaporated.

"Bernard!" he howled as his roommate looked up from clothes-pinning more rolls to a line of twine that ran above his bed.

"Hey, Adrian!" His roommate helped him through the gauntlet of still-drying strips. "Gotcha there, didn't they? Sorry your sweater's wet." He brushed Monk off good-naturedly, but the latter sidestepped him and wriggled out of his cardigan.

"Eight and a half minutes," Monk muttered, now no longer in such a good mood.

"You're lucky they were pinned down," Bernard continued as if he hadn't heard. The two young men had survived living together largely by talking past each other until one of the two left the room. Bernard now continued this tradition by proudly showing Monk an enlargement of an ant's head and asking what Monk thought. Hastily folding the cardigan, Monk replied that he'd never seen Bernard's mother look prettier.

"That picture is a beauty, isn't—hey! You didn't even look!"

"Wait! These rolls have been bathed in chemicals!" Monk started checking to see if any drops had made contact with his skin.

"Although Mom _is_ kind of ugly, let me tell you."

"You've probably just rinsed them in water."

"But this ant is only one part of a multi-faceted—"

"Do you know what's in developer fluid?"

"Developer fluid! I knew I had to pick something else up at the store!"

"I'll have to change shirts!"

"Why didn't you knock?"

"Oh, God, it's six fifty-five!"

"I think you shoved a few of the rolls out of place."

"W-what if she's early?"

"D'you think they're out of order?"

"And Drew. It wouldn't surprise me if _he_ showed his face."

"Adrian, can you tell me—"

"Why didn't I knock?"

They both glanced at the door, and this common gesture put them both on the same thought path. Monk stilled for a moment, then said, "Okay—Okay, look. I need to get back through that door in good shape_. It's our second date._ If you just take them," he waved at the photos, "just put them away in a dark corner until I get back, I'll arrange them for you any way you want." Monk glanced at the clock. "Four point five minutes!"

Monk carefully started peeling away his shirt. Then he stopped and looked at the window, open in order to let the film dry. He carefully rolled the shade down all the way. Then he stopped again.

"Um."

Bernard folded his arms across his chest patiently.

"Would you mind turning around?" Monk pleaded.

"Dude, it's just your shirt. Some guys go strolling around campus like that!"

Monk merely fidgeted.

In defeat, Bernard flung up his hands and did an about-face.

Monk carefully lifted the shirt over his shoulders. "I hate getting goosebumps," he said through the fabric as he pulled it off. "Mph mmph and don't worry about the root beer I see you spilled this afternoon. I'll clean it up later."

"Thanks, Missus Monk," Bernard drawled. He threw Monk a sidelong glance. Mistake.

Monk's arms constricted around his torso in an effort to shield himself.

"Okay, okay, I'm not looking!"

Monk had one arm through a clean shirt when someone tapped gently at the windowsill.

Clutching the shade to him like a towel, Monk peered over it…

…straight into _her_ bright, clear eyes.

"Trudy!" he gasped.

Monk pulled reflexively away from the window, and in his panic, he pulled the shade away, too. With a sharp _zzzip!, _the shade snapped back up.

_Noooo…_

There was a brief fight for dominance with his shirt and his jitters, from which Monk emerged victorious, albeit facing the wrong way. Too embarrassed now to turn around, he waved at Trudy over his shoulder.

"Hi, there," he said. _I am done for_.

He couldn't bear a backward glance. He was sure that any other girl would have left the dorm and his life in a fit of giggles by now. But as long as there was reason to hope, he forced himself to speak. "I didn't expect you to be, you know, there. At the window. And three minutes early."

He could imagine her dissolving into laughter or scoffing at him, but to his surprise, her voice was calm and kind.

"I'm sorry, Adrian. I've been avoiding the main entrance because I know Drew Cooney lives in this building. I didn't want to make things difficult for you. He…took our break-up pretty hard."

Still not daring to turn around, Monk swallowed. "You were trying to protect me?" he said timidly.

He could tell she was grinning. "It's my job, now, isn't it? That, and scaring the shirt off your back." A little shyly, she added, "Nice shoulders, by the way."

"I…" A compliment. Wow. A compliment from her! _Steady, she hasn't run away yet…don't lose it…_

"You look wonderful, too," he said with feeling.

"Adrian," Trudy said skeptically. "You're not looking at me. You saw me for, what, half a second?"

"Yes, I know," and to stop his hands from trembling at the memory, he began buttoning his shirt cuffs. "Blue is really your color. Of course, so is yellow, and so is black. You didn't have to change your dress that many times for me."

There was a lengthy pause, and then, matter-of-factly, she said, "Hang on. I want to figure out how you knew that. No, don't turn around, I'm trying to hone my investigative eye, too." There came the sound of her shifting around.

Monk took the opportunity to nab a clean handkerchief from a drawer. He'd often heard other guys talk about how hot and sweaty their dates got, and he knew that he, too, would probably have to dab at his forehead at some point in the evening.

"All right, I know how you guessed the black," said Trudy. "I looked at my watch, and there's a piece of thread that got caught on the knob. The yellow dress stumps me, though. How'd you know I changed?"

"I've seen you around campus. You only ever wear that gold necklace with yellow…except for tonight," Monk answered. "I'm guessing your silver jewelry is in your purse and, since you wanted to be early, you didn't have time to put it on. You'll probably make some excuse to go to the ladies' room while we wait for our food, and then make the switch." And, on the off chance that she wasn't about to smack him over the head with said purse, he added, "You were right about the black thread. You have a good eye."

He paused. "Maybe I should turn around now?"

"If you like," she said airily. "I can't complain, though."

He flushed but couldn't help a small smile. "Okay, then."

He turned around, and she was, for the second time, the loveliest woman he had ever seen in his life.

Trudy gave him an apologetic look. "And to think I was bent on not causing you trouble."

"Don't worry about it. I just thought, when you came to the window, that maybe…" he looked away.

Monk should have known that Trudy could read the same clues in his countenance that he could in her clothing.

"No, Adrian," she emphasized, "I am _not_ embarrassed to be seen with you. Why would I be?"

"'Cause he's Captain Cool," Bernard called over. "Know what that means?"

"I'm guessing it's pejorative," Trudy deadpanned. "Bernard, right? I wonder where my notes went on that Exposures exposé. Something about buttonhole cameras in the girls' changing room…"

While Bernard spluttered a response, Monk's smile returned. Somehow, the sheer discomfort of the situation had fallen away, and he was just there, with her.

Trudy motioned for him to climb out of the window.

It was pretty risky, and very undignified, and not something he would ever, under normal circumstances, do. But her eyes shone for him as she held out her hand, and he was at her side before he knew he had moved.

* * *

Monk hoped he hadn't messed up too badly by taking Trudy to jazz night at this restaurant. He didn't know if it was the right thing for a second date, or any date. But he'd passed by the place, and knew that it was clean, had a romantic atmosphere, was clean, hired attentive staff, was clean, and the food was hardly ever touching on the plates. Plus, he'd seen other couples come here, though, importantly, not a certain Drew Cooney.

So far, there were no disasters. He had pulled out her chair for her, said she looked lovely, and told some moron ogling her from across the room that he hoped the parking ticket the man's car had just gotten was worth it. When Trudy had stopped laughing, the waiter asked if they would like some wine.

"No, thank you," they both said, and looked, abashed, at each other.

"I'm sorry!"

"I'm sorry!"

"Uh—"

"Well—"

Monk held up a hand. "You first."

Trudy winced. "I guess you know I'm too young to be drinking."

"Actually, I never drink…ever…so." He looked at her. "Wait, what were we just apologizing for?"

Trudy looked at him affectionately. "Matching up too much, I guess."

"Well, then," he smiled. "I wonder what else we have in common?" He looked into her eyes. "Tell me. Tell me anything about you."

"Adrian," said Trudy, "I'm quite sure by now that you know more about me than _I_ do."

"Facts don't make a person," he returned. "I know your major is journalism, but is reporting really your goal?"

She leaned forward. "Yes, but not on television. I'd love to have my own column someday. I know," here she sighed, "I'm _more_ than aware that most girls with that major end up teaching English in some school, or answering the phone as secretaries." She shrugged. "I'm going to give it a try, anyway. Can't hurt, right?"

Here was a hurdle for him. Monk never knew when to be blunt but earnest and when to be nice but evasive. He also lacked an ear for rhetorical questions.

Monk pressed his lips together in thought.

He decided to try it.

"Trudy," he said at last, "dreams can sometimes hurt. Even when they come true. But we all have them for a reason, don't we? Ignoring that just makes us smaller." He patted her hand. "I think you'll do great work. I mean it."

She squeezed his hand. "That's what I love about my Adrian. He always means every word."

Their glasses of water arrived, which they raised with their left hands so they wouldn't have to let go of each other. The glasses chimed in unison.

"Attention, everyone!"

Monk slopped water out of his glass as a man with a microphone spoke out.

"I am sorry to say that the jazz band is canceled tonight. Miss Reinette has come down with a sudden head cold."

There were sounds of disappointment from the customers.

"Oh, that's a shame," mourned Trudy. "I was hoping for…Adrian. Adrian, what's wrong?"

"Ahhhh," Monk hid his sodden shirt cuff under the table. "Nothing. Nothing, I'm fine. Fine." His mouth stretched into what he hoped was a feasible grin, and he blinked rapidly.

"Adrian Monk, that is the least convincing smile I have ever seen."

"Is it? Huh." He wrung the water out of his cold and clammy sleeve.

She knit her brows, and Monk knew what she was thinking: what was wrong with him?

"I'm okay." Monk tried to smooth things over while still tugging uncomfortably at his sleeve. "I just have this…I mean, I have to…why won't it dry?" He scrubbed at the spot with one hand.

She bit her lip. "But it's just water."

Somehow, he forced his hands apart and back onto the table. "I know it's ridiculous," he whispered, lowering his eyes. "I can't help it, Trudy. I'll stop now."

For a moment, neither spoke. Trudy played with her napkin a little, as if deciding something.

"I'm a reporter," she blurted out, "so I have to ask. Is it—do you have—"

"Obsessive-compulsive disorder? I'm afraid so." Monk hated mentioning it by name, but there it was. He felt she had the right to an answer.

"I see."

The next thing he knew, warmth radiated along his left hand. Monk raised his eyes and found her smile waiting for him, as if nothing untoward had happened. Her hand rested on his sleeve, right over the place where he'd spilled the water.

"It'll dry faster this way," she explained.

Then she winked, and Monk's skyscraper-high fall for this woman took him straight through the concrete.

Scattered applause broke out around them, and Monk tried to get his bearings. His memory recall for the past two minutes was significantly impaired, and Trudy had to tell him that jazz night was being replaced by Las mañanitas, a Valencian flamenco group.

Monk looked at Trudy, aghast.

"Flamenco?" he said, mouth suddenly dry. "Isn't that a little risqué?"

Trudy threw back her head and laughed. "Well, at least now I know you're not the type to frequent a strip club. Adrian, they don't form a kick line. I've seen some before, on videotape in my Castilian culture class." All of a sudden, she cocked her head to one side. "At least one person's enjoying it. Look!"

In the half-light, Monk made out the figure of a slight, well-dressed brunette in her forties. Far from being put-out at the sudden change in performance, she was still clapping her hands.

"I know that woman!" he said. "She's a Spanish professor!"

"Looks like this music is just what she needed," said Trudy. "I've seen her around campus, though we've never met. She's been looking stressed, lately." Her blue eyes followed the lady.

Monk looked at her, curious. "You remember that she looked stressed?"

"Yes, but don't ask how much the soup I just ordered was. Numbers don't speak to me the way people do. Anyway, I've heard others talking about it. They say she's usually very cheerful."

Monk's glass shook again as the dancer on stage stomped his foot, beginning a fiery dance.

"If she likes this music," he muttered, "she _must _be from Spain."

"Hey, I like it, too," said Trudy, nudging his foot under the table. "But you're right. When she talked to my professor, she lisped her 'z's. And she used _aula_, not _clase_."

Monk nodded, still pondering the older woman.

"That's unusual," he said to himself.

"It is?"

"No, not that. Her necklace," he said, his eyes narrowing in the woman's direction. "It shone in the light for a moment. It's a star of David."

"She's Jewish?"

"Jewish _and_ from Spain. Not a common combination."

"You're amazing at detail, you know that?"

"Only if it leads to the big picture," said Monk. He was very aware of how she was looking at him; at the same time, he was resisting the urge to glean more clues from the professor.

Trudy nodded knowingly at him. "You want to find out what's bothering her."

"Well, I, it's just…um…"

She laid a hand on his shoulder. "Don't apologize for curiosity. It's one of the traits I like best in a man. 'Sides, I have that itch, too. It's irresistible."

She scooted her chair slightly backward. "However, I am also having a wonderful time with you. So...if you'll excuse me." Her eyes danced merrily as she held up her purse. "I have to, what was that you said? Oh, yes, 'make some excuse to go to the ladies' room while we wait for our food, and then make the switch.'"

That drew a laugh from him. It was an embarrassed one, but also the first in a long time.

* * *

Trudy pulled out her jewelry, very carefully, and set her purse down on the table before heading for the restroom.

She had been losing herself in his eyes again. It was getting to be a bad habit! To her, Adrian Monk was unsettling and exciting at once, and his eyes were simply magnetic. Trudy was quite sure that if an earthquake had rattled the dinnerware, she would have let it all fall to the floor. Until, of course, Adrian reached down to pick up every piece and offered to help the staff clean up.

She wondered what he might have discovered about her, with his perfect memory and unerring eye. What was in her that made him happy to be with her?

Well, there was only one way to find out…

_Let's see if you figure out this one, Adrian Monk._

She smoothed down her hair and her dress, and inspected her make-up over and over in the mirror. She had straightened and re-straightened her jewelry in the meantime, then wondered why her nerves were so bad. Adrian was the gentlest man she'd ever met; she was foolish for being so self-conscious!

She checked her watch; she'd give him five minutes.

On her way out, she passed by a man at the phones. He was talking, very low and fast, into the receiver. The name "Arturo" was repeated twice, but Trudy couldn't understand another word he said. He was large and dark-haired, with a full beard and a smug expression. She couldn't identify the language, but his tone of voice held command.

Her instincts told her to back away. So, naturally, Trudy brushed past him, ostensibly faltering for balance on the polished floor. It was her inner reporter; she couldn't shut it off, even though danger signals went off like fireworks inside her head.

_At least I got a good look._ His resolute chin and strong-eyed stare brought out the contempt stamped on his face. He had shredded a small Berkeley campus leaflet to bits, then pocketed it. Her "stumble" had also allowed her to glance at the floor.

_Sir, unless I'm mistaken, you have just dropped a Spanish peseta._

For a moment, they locked eyes. He looked right at her, and said something very quick, very derisive into the phone.

She turned on her heel and forced herself to keep her step even as she walked away. Every hair on her head confirmed it: this man was perilous company.

Slightly shaken, it was later than she hoped when she returned to her table.

* * *

Dinner had arrived, and Monk didn't see a thing on his plate. Her little black handbag lay there, just within reach, taunting him.

Trudy had forgotten to zip up her purse. Why, oh why, did that have to happen? Didn't she know he was dying to find out what was inside, to know more about her?

He reached for it, retracted his hand. Reach, retract. Reach, retract—he couldn't help it. He snatched up the purse and carefully opened it all the way with a pen.

A collection of odds and ends awaited him. Some were sentimental, some perfunctory; some should probably have been thrown out long ago. From what he could tell, she was loving, and bright, though a bit forgetful. Wait...what was this?

Monk felt a tiny piece of stiff paper in one of the inside pockets.

A man's hand had printed something on a little card.

_To my wonderful girl. I love you so much._

Monk felt a roaring in his ears.

It wasn't from Drew. He always called Trudy "Babe." Someone else wrote that. Someone else wrote it…and the note was still in the purse. Maybe she had forgotten to take it out when she started dating him?

_No,_ Monk realized in despair. _That card looks brand-new. She's barely had time to touch it. _

The little scrap of paper felt welded to his hand. He saw her returning to him out of the corner of his eye, and with a bad case of heartache, he tucked the card inside his shirt cuff.

"Hello, Trudy," he said to his plate.

The next words out of her mouth floored him.

"So, Adrian, did you have fun looking through my purse?"

His head snapped up.

She smiled pertly at him.

Monk went pale. He gaped, closed his mouth, stammered something, turned bright red, and dabbed at his forehead with his handkerchief.

"I…I…I…"

"Aha. I thought you might not resist a tiny peek inside." With satisfaction, "It's exactly what I would have done."

The handkerchief fluttered out of his hands. "You _wanted_ me to look?"

"Maybe it was a bad idea," she admitted, "but you deduce so much just by sight that I thought it might be a good way for you to know me better."

She reached down to pick up the handkerchief, neatly folded it, and placed it back in his hand.

"I left everything the way I had it this morning," she continued. "Nothing omitted. That's me, in there. The real me."

Monk stared at her, trying to find his voice again.

"Here I thought I was finding more out about _you_," he said, impressed. Gaining confidence, "You've _hoodwinked_ me, Miss Ellison. May I say you are a very devious woman?"

It had been a long time since he had teased anyone, but her delighted expression showed him that the words had not been wasted.

"Psst," came the waiter's voice. "How's the food?"

Monk heard nothing. He just reached back into his sleeve and returned the note to her.

Trudy followed his eye, and looked at the card in confusion. "That's not mine. At least, I…"

She lifted it out of his hands.

"Oh, my gosh," she said, "Dad wrote this! He must have sneaked it inside the purse when he bought it for me. I didn't even know it was in there."

"Always check the inner pockets," Monk informed her. "Especially the tiny ones." Only then did his emotions catch up with his thoughts.

He hadn't screwed up. Even when he _had_ screwed up, he hadn't screwed up. She wasn't angry. She wasn't hurt.

And she. Still. Liked him.

"AHEM!" said a very loud voice to Monk's right.

They both jumped like frightened rabbits.

"Lovebirds, I said, _how's the food_?" asked the very impatient waiter.

Trudy looked at him. "Did he say that, Adrian?"

Monk shrugged. "I wasn't really listening."

_"I've been asking for the past five minutes!"_

Monk pasted an insincere smile on his face. "Food's _great_," he said, and the waiter left in a huff.

"We'd better eat before he turns the fire extinguisher on us," Trudy said. "So, anything else you now know about me?"

"Besides the fact that you like rock music, are an organ donor, write poetry, and never remember where you put your keys?"

She threw up her hands in surrender. "I confess, I confess! It was I, all along!"

"Did I mention you were a stickler for grammar?"

Their levity was short-lived. They had barely started on their appetizer when along came the Spanish professor.

The woman in question rose from her place and clicked past them in heels, but returned just half a minute later, looking frazzled. She loudly grabbed a passing waiter's attention and thrust a few bills at him, then gathered up her things in a flurry of movement. She kept glancing back…in the direction of the restrooms.

Trudy looked at Monk.

"You know, I saw a man loitering by the phones on my way to changing my jewelry. He was making a call, I think to someone named Arturo. He was also _very _forbidding." She nodded in the direction that the professor was looking.

Monk tilted his head. "Could he be the reason she's been stressed?"

Trudy shrugged. "He had Spanish money, and there was that pamphlet…"

Monk drew from her every last detail. In the end, he couldn't make heads or tails of it, and this left him with a furrowed brow.

"Two people, of about the same age, from the same country of origin, one threatening and one threatened? It looks pretty bad," Monk surmised. "It could be a matter of money; did you see the dress she had on?"

"Yes, gorgeous, and completely unaffordable on a professor's salary."

"I suppose they could be related, but since he wasn't wearing a yarmulke…"

"That, plus he was speaking a strange language," said Trudy.

Monk raised an eyebrow. "I thought you knew Spanish."

"I do. It wasn't Spanish. Not at all. Not even close."

"Yiddish?" Monk suggested.

"No," said Trudy in frustration. "Nothing I can identify. I'm good with languages, too. This wasn't like any tongue I've ever heard before. _Euska-_something was the only sound I remember. He kept repeating it." She looked at him glumly. "Some help, huh?"

Monk's head drooped for a moment. Then he perked up again.

"As a matter of fact, it might be." He jotted down a few notes on his unused napkin, and put it into his breast pocket for future inquiry.

* * *

"Excuse me? EXCUSE ME, hel-LO!" The waiter flung his arms out wide. "Would you like anything else? Here's a hint: say no."

"Yes," said Trudy irritably. "The check, please."

_Idiot. He broke __Adrian__'s concentration! _she groused. Then she berated herself. It wasn't the waiter's fault. It was just…Adrian was Adrian, and she guessed not many people understood exactly how he ticked. It might explain why he always seemed to be by himself.

Oh. His eyes were on her again.

She nervously centered the butterfly pendant on her necklace, hoping he wouldn't notice.

Naturally, Adrian's eyes followed her hand to the millimeter.

Trudy mentally cursed. Little did she know, it was her turn for a surprise.

"Trudy," he frowned, "you don't have to keep doing that."

"I know you like things neat and straight," she protested.

"But that's me," he said firmly. "Not you."

"It wouldn't make you uncomfortable?"

He looked at her incredulously. "It would make me more uncomfortable to know you were constantly looking yourself over because of me." He pressed a hand to his forehead. "Let me try and explain. I don't like dirt, or germs, or things out of order. But if I let all that control me, I would be out of order in _here_." He touched a hand to his chest. "This is where you bring order, Trudy. Where it matters."

He leaned back then, studying her intently. She tried to come up with something that powerful to say back. He didn't give her the chance.

An impish gleam appeared in his eye. His hand left his glass and reached halfway between them.

"I could fix it for you, if _you_ want."

Her heart skipped a beat. If it had been any other man, she would have glared and batted his hand away. With Adrian, it wasn't like that. He wasn't _after_ anything.

"Would you?" she asked trustingly.

Lightly, he brushed her collarbone. He pressed the silver butterfly against her skin. Trudy felt herself redden as his precise fingers righted the pendant and pushed it smoothly back into place.

She felt suddenly cold when he withdrew his hand.

_Adrian, you sweetheart, you didn't even look down._

Trudy mumbled her thanks, wringing the napkin in her lap. The skin under her necklace tingled, and she resisted the irrational impulse to jerk the chain to the side again.

Two dates—two dates with this man!—and she was all but ready to say "love." No doubt about it, she was in over her head.

* * *

"That waiter shouldn't have thrown his apron at you."

Monk smiled. _Finally, someone's on my side. _

"It was his fault, too," he added. "He overcharged us by 17 cents! Did he think I was just going to let that go?"

"Here, come here," she said, and threaded her arm through his.

"Maybe…" his chest grew tight, but he said the words anyway. "Let's go somewhere else next time, okay?"

Next time. He was assuming a lot.

If he had jumped the gun, Trudy didn't call him on it.

"You're right. Actually, there's a mystery theater next Sunday." Trudy pointed to an advertisement. "It's right over—"

"The godson did it."

She hit him lightly on the arm. "If you're so smart, why did you wait three weeks to call me? We could have spent all that time together."

"I didn't want to seem presumptuous. You're way out of my—"

"Hey, Trudy!"

"—league," Monk finished bleakly.

A young blonde was waving energetically at his girlfriend. Monk's first instinct was to hide. He knew her name: Janice Ellinghouse. She was bright, inquisitive, and antagonistic. A true reporter at heart.

Trudy smiled lopsidedly. "Hello, Janice. How's it going?"

No sooner were the words out of her mouth than Janice had stuck a lacquered fingernail in Monk's face.

"You!" she said emphatically.

Monk shrank back.

"Me," he said in a small voice.

Janice turned up her nose at him and faced Trudy.

"Girl, where's your nose for avoiding his type?" she asked. "I walked by the restaurant right when this creep was staring at some middle-aged broad in a fancy dress!"

Monk blanched while Trudy tried to explain.

"Uh, that wasn't actually…"

"Aren't you ashamed of yourself?" Janice scolded him.

"Yes, at all times, ma'am, but if I may say something…"

"Trudy, take my advice. Leave _that_ by the curb." She linked her arm with Trudy's on the other side. "C'mon, there are better men to take upstairs, trust me."

"He hasn't _been _upstairs," said Trudy, yanking her arm away.

"That's right," Monk put in. "She lives on the first floor."

Janice stared at him.

"Janice," Trudy tried to distract her, "I know why he was staring, and believe me, his reasons were honorable. Can you mind your own business, please?"

Janice blew past Trudy's asperity. "I'm telling you, you'd better be careful. Look at him! Shiny shoes, starched shirt, nervous hands." She sniffed the air. "I smell a Quaker or a first-class pervert. You watch out, you hear?"

Having said her piece, Janice promptly wheeled around and jogged away from them.

Trudy looked after Janice, bewildered. "And she thinks _you're_ weird."

Adrian shifted. "I am. But I'm sure she means well."

"She means to be _right_. It'd kill her if she found out you were actually a decent man, and _her_ instincts were wrong. Maybe that's why she didn't stick around to find out." Trudy rolled her eyes. "She's a little long on interrogation, a little short on explanation. Other times, she can actually be a dear."

"In other words, the perfect news anchor."

"Adrian Monk, that is incredibly forgiving of you," smiled Trudy. "I think she'll come around. If not," she finished grimly, "I may promise you mayhem."

He touched Trudy's hair reverently. "Come on. You couldn't hurt anyone."

Trudy stopped his stride with a hand over his heart.

She turned to face him.

They were still in the center of the sidewalk. He wondered why that no longer mattered.

_People are starting to stare,_ he thought dizzily. _That's a good idea. Maybe I'll do that, too._

She was _so _beautiful. She was also very near.

In a low voice, she said, "Your collar's not straight."

"'Course it is," he answered, mesmerized.

"Are you certain?" Her hands were at his shoulders. Monk closed his eyes as her hands glided up to the top of his shirt and playfully tugged it askew.

"I'm sure it used to be," he said, unable to lie even now, but his arms were wiser than he, and moved towards her waist.

"What about now?" she whispered softly, fingering the cloth under his chin.

"Now…I…Trudy…"

Their arms entwined, Monk's eyes still closed. Why did he have to know exactly how she looked? He could have traced her features in the dark. Her forehead…there. Her nose…her chin…

Her sweet mouth, _there._

His hands did not shake as he kissed her. He and she stood still, close and perfect, their lips softly pressed together. Monk didn't think he'd ever move again.

His resolution lasted until a passing bike nearly ran them down. With the last of his senses, he opened his eyes and escorted her off the sidewalk. Then an old lady came outside and yelled at them for trampling her lawn. They walked in the road, got beeped at, kissed again, earned some catcalls, and were both clumsy and silly enough that the cab they had called was forgotten, and they splashed their way back to campus through the gutters and gravel. It was dirty, wet, and beginning to rain, except that somewhere inside Monk a light was burning all the outer filth away, and his whole soul was clean, clean, clean.

* * *

The film rolls still smelled slightly acidic, and every once in a while, one would come unpinned and slither down over Monk's supine face. Bernard was snoring away with his pants on the bedpost, the dried root beer still sticking to the floor. Monk hadn't had time to defrost the freezer, or even dry his damp shirtsleeve from the half-spilled glass of water.

The long, old list of fears couldn't touch him tonight. Adrian Monk slept away, hands curled around his pillow. The clock ticked across the blissful hours, but the mechanical part of Monk's mind was shut off. The night glided by, almost sweetly, as if knowing that his contentment couldn't last for long.

It took until three a.m. for sheer terror to sink in.

Monk's eyes opened wide from a dreamless sleep.

_Oh, no._

His muscles were rigid. He had goose bumps running up and down his arms.

_No, no, no._

He'd had a fantastic time that night. He, Adrian Monk, had been happy, with himself and the world. It was terrible. It was the worst thing of all!

He trembled with fright beneath the blankets.

Life was good? That was _bad_. Good didn't happen to him. True, sometimes it got close enough to look in Monk's window. Then it squished its nose against the glass and made faces that were funny to everyone but him.

She would leave. She would get bored. She wouldn't love him anymore. It would be his fault, always his fault. It wouldn't take death or fate to part them. She would never stay on her own, never. Drew Cooney would have his smile back, with interest.

Monk was scared. He choked with fear because he _knew_. Somewhere, somehow, and soon, there would be the inevitable downturn. There could be no doubt: something would shake apart his heaven.

* * *

I hope you don't mind epically long installments. Trudy and Monk had a _lot _to say to each other. 'Til next time!


	3. The Professor's Shadow

Disclaimer: I do not own _Monk _or any of its character, plotlines, etc.

**A/N: Here it is, at long last! The mystery starts up in earnest, and Monk and Trudy have their third date! Thanks to everyone who reviewed, and especially to Akari, for betaing.**

* * *

**Chapter Two: The Professor's Shadow**

Monk had fully expected to pay with a nightmare for each day that passed since his date with Trudy. It stood to reason that his worries would whittle away at the joy he held; they would break his nerves, bit by bit, until he would come to regret ever having tried to date her. Why shouldn't this relationship follow the pattern of the rest of his life?

Well, either reason was peg-legged, or he gave his mind too much credit. After the first agonizing night, Monk only woke up in a cold sweat one time that week—and he was pretty sure that was because Bernard had tinkered with the thermostat. The depression and anxiety, which he had fully expected to overwhelm him, were met with a stubborn streak of hope that he couldn't quite erase.

It wasn't fair. Monk had always worked hard to perfect his pessimism in spite of his hopeful nature. It was a finely-honed defense, and hardly ever wrong. Still, something inside him was rebelling. Part of Monk was refusing to prune back his own good mood, and in spite of his fear, it kept growing. The two sides were waging a dirty, heated war in his heart, and more terrifying yet, he had no idea where that would take him.

_What's wrong with me? _Monk asked himself as the phone rang on the morning of their next date.

It was Trudy, of course.

_Good morning, panic, _Monk thought. _What kept you away so long?_

"Hi, sleepyhead," she said. "I know you were studying hard for an exam, so I didn't want to wake you before now."

"Tests with essay questions are always difficult," acknowledged Monk, surer of himself now that the conversation steered toward the mundane. "You can't simply memorize the correct answer."

"On the other hand," Trudy joked, "if you're like me and forget everything, you can B.S. your way through as long as you use strong enough rhetoric!"

"Is that so," said Monk in a tone of friendly challenge.

"Verbosity with a pinch of veracity," Trudy insisted. "Works every time."

_Stop! _Monk told his smile as it crept up on him again. _What are you doing, Monk? You're _bantering! _If you had an ounce of sense, you'd end this before your heart has a chance to get really broken. You're only bound to be disappointed in the…_

"So, are we still on for our date tonight?" Monk's mouth asked of its own volition.

"Yes," said Trudy hesitantly. Then, "I know it's my turn to pick a spot. I have something in mind, but I want you to know right now it's a little unconventional."

"Oh…unconventional." Monk bent down and began aligning his shoes at the foot of the bed. "Sure."

"I know, it's not your favorite word." After a moment's pause, she added, "Adrian, I wouldn't have chosen this place for just anyone. I've been thinking…a lot… and I have to say something."

He nearly dropped the phone. This couldn't be good.

She drew in a breath. "Sweetheart? I think we're serious."

_Heartbreak! Heartbreak! _Monk's mental alarm went off like an air raid siren.

The silence pulled taut like a bowstring.

What could he possibly say?

_I can't do this, _Monk thought. _I can't wait around, building up my hopes until the day I get stabbed through the chest. I'm not brave enough. I'm not strong enough. I'm just not meant for her._

"Here's the thing," Monk began, certain that pessimism had won. He lined up all of his rationalizations, all of the ways that truthfulness was a terrible idea right now._ Adrian Monk, _he willed, _let her down gently. She deserves better than you, and you know it._

"It's always been serious for me, Trudy," Monk said. "You have no idea how hard I've fallen for you."

"Adrian," she said quietly, "I _do _have some idea."

_So far, so good, _Monk's thoughts continued as reality got left by the roadside._ Now that she's gotten the message that I'm ending the relationship,_ _I've got to let her know that it's not her fault._

"It's all your fault, you know. If you weren't so wonderful…"

"Hey, don't go blaming me for that," she scolded lovingly. "You're the kind of man I've always wanted."

_So, it was never the real thing with her, _thought Monk in relief. _At least I didn't make that big of an impression._

Firmly ensconced in the idea that all had gone as planned, Monk decided to tackle the hardest part of this conversation: the final good-bye.

"I'll see you tonight, then," he said aloud. "Try not to make the stars too jealous."

"And you, don't attract too many girls with the meantime." She blew him a kiss.

"I miss your voice already," said Monk.

_I'm never seeing her again._

He put the phone down and reached out to steady himself against the desk.

Over to his left, he saw Bernard open one eye.

"Wow," his roommate said, flattening his tousled hair with his hands. "Who'd you pay to write you those lines you just spewed?"

"Well, it's never easy," Monk acknowledged, "but I think she took our break-up pretty well."

Bernard stared.

He pinched his forearm.

He stared some more.

"Okay," he rubbed his forehead, "Now I remember why we always talk past each other when we cross paths."

"What's so hard to understand?" bristled Monk. "Trudy and I are no longer…no longer…" Monk turned away and began his morning dust-inspection. "She'll thank me later. And I'll have you know," he said irritably, "I am perfectly capable of severing a personal connection if I feel that I'm becoming too dependent on it."

"Yeah, buddy," said Bernard, amusement creeping into his voice, "I think _I_ was there for your little love-chat more than you were. But don't worry. It'll come back to you eventually." He smirked. "You'll thank you later!"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Bernard snorted. "Adrian, would you mind some friendly advice?"

"As a matter of fact—"

"Here it is, anyway." He poked Monk in the chest. "Don't go into panic mode." He poked him again. "I_ know_ you're almost there. You're teetering on the edge, but don't go there. There will be plenty of other times in your life for all that. Hey, I gotta go pee. Hold down the fort, will ya?"

"Fort. Pee. Right," said Monk.

Bernard went out.

"Wait, what?" Monk asked the empty room.

In response, his memory played its perfect recording of what had _really _happened when he'd been talking to Trudy.

Adrian Monk did not go into panic mode.

He _wished _he were in panic mode.

* * *

The door to Professor Fleisch's office was open. Trudy had found out her office hours, and had gladly seized the opening when she could. She had done her best to tail the professor without being seen, a goal evidently easier for her than for the man from Spain who hadn't spoken Spanish. Twice she had seen a furtive glimpse of him on campus; he seemed to be getting to know the area fairly well. Although Trudy had been careful to screen herself by striking up conversations with professors around Dr. Fleisch, the second time the stalker appeared, Trudy broke off her pursuit.

The man wasn't just some sketchy character that public safety could take care of. She was pretty sure he could put two and two together, and Trudy wanted to make sure he didn't do that until she was ready with some information.

In her head, she had a rough outline of an interview with the professor, but Trudy liked to be spontaneous. The personality and facial cues that she spotted once an interview was underway often led her to unexpected revelations.

"¿Hola, Profesora Fleisch?"

The petite middle-aged woman folded her reading glasses and set aside her wineglass. "¿Cómo puedo ayudarte, querida?"

"Me llamo Trudy Ellison, y estoy tomando el curso de cultura castellana—"

"Ah, con el profesor Ramón. Siéntate, siéntate."

The professor motioned to a chair in front of her desk. Trudy sat uncertainly, more agitated than she thought she should be in this situation. Looking around her, she saw all the trappings of academia—World's Greatest Prof mugs, a green desk lamp, file cabinets all but bowed out by the numbers of papers they contained. The professor had even paneled her office with bookshelves. They were dark, solid, and covered with leather-and-gold-leaf volumes of every subject under the sun. She felt that, under other circumstances, she might like to become this woman's friend.

Not wanting this part of the Q&A to seem staged, Trudy had formulated an excuse earlier that morning for visiting Dr. Fleisch: Trudy's supposed interest in Spain under Franco's rule.

"Pues…necesito información sobre un informe que hago para viernes. Supongo que usted estuviera en España durante la época de Franco. Si es verdad, ¿cómo era?"

_If the woman is somehow connected to Spain's old dictatorship, that might explain why someone from Spain is after her._

The older woman laughed dryly. "Nos mudamos cuando tenía ocho años. Pero sí puedo acordarme del terror y la crueldad de ese tiempo."

_She was _eight _when she moved to America?_ _Well, that eliminates the possibility of her having committed a crime in Europe. I wonder… _

"Mi padre luchó contra los nacionales durante la Guerra Civil," added the professor.

Great. Her father was a Spanish Civil War freedom fighter. That made him a hero in the eyes of the new government, so it was unlikely that even Fleisch's _family _would have someone after them for political reasons. Perhaps it was personal?

"¿Usted tiene familia allí?" _Maybe if there's bad blood between her and a Spanish relative…_

But Trudy would have to wait for an answer, for who should barrel through the door at that moment but a red-faced, out of breath Janice Ellinghouse?

"Professor Fleisch! Professor Fleisch, right? Yes! I knew I had the right office."

"Dear me," said the woman, reverting to English. "I don't imagine _you _have taken an interest in the cultural nuances of Castile."

"Castile?" Janice looked sideways at Trudy. "Oh, I gotcha. Playing the innocent inquisitive student? Nice angle, Ellison. Now let me show you how it's done in the real world."

She dragged a protesting chair from the corner and sat down by the professor's desk.

"The issue at hand," continued Janice, unruffled, "is that you, ma'am, might have a stalker after you."

_"Janice!"_

"It's okay, Trudy, I've got this one. Don't worry, Miz Fleisch."

"It's Mrs., actually."

Janice made a tiny note. "We're with the student paper. We haven't told anybody about this yet. We'll only use this information if the affair becomes public."

"I sure didn't tell _you _anything," fumed Trudy. "How did you know about the man following her?"

"I was people-watching at the restaurant you went to. It's one of the best places for gossip in town. That's how I saw your would-be boyfriend making a fool of himself. Hey, you're not still going out with that los—"

The professor drummed her fingers against the desk to get their attention. "Ladies, what can I say? You are right. Of course, it wouldn't be the first time someone followed me. I married rich, and someone's always after me to see if I'm about to cause a scandal or other." Her face bore a long-suffering look. "His competitors would love that. My husband's, I mean. They hear I'm from Spain and they seem to think I'm…exotic, or some such thing. They've gotten no blackmail on me yet, though, and mark my words, they won't."

This disappointed Janice, but excited Trudy greatly. Whatever might be going on, she sensed that the professor had told them the truth, as far as she knew it. And yet, that aloof man by the phones was definitely not paparazzi.

Janice jotted down a couple of notes in the meantime. Trudy could tell she was aching to ask if there was anything to blackmail the professor _about_.

"You know, Mrs. Fleisch" Janice commented, "you speak pretty good English for…"

"…a United States citizen?" Trudy headed her off before things got any more embarrassing. "Professor Fleisch has lived here since childhood, and she married an American stockbroker. I'm guessing dual citizenship, ma'am?"

The professor gave her a cool smile. "Correct."

Janice's fingers tightened around her notepad. She _hated_ being wrong.

To her credit, Magda Fleisch was maintaining her placid facade. "I will certainly let the student news know of any further developments."

Janice huffed. "Oh, please. Like we haven't all heard _that _line before. Hey, what gives?" she cried as Trudy wrestled the notepad away from her.

"Lo siento mucho, no sabía que ella vendría, Profesora, gracias por su atención…" she apologized while dragging her classmate bodily away.

"No hay de que, Trudy," Professor Fleisch replied with a small smile. Pointedly in English, "I will answer _your_ question from before. I have no family in Spain since my father's death. He brought us here after World War II. We are Jewish, of course. He had hidden from German searchers in the Pyrenees."

Janice's face lit up. "Wow! That's incredible!"

"Okay, that's it. We're out of here. Now." Trudy was the weaker of the two, but she bundled Janice out of that room using reserves of energy she didn't know she had.

"She won't talk to you any more, you know," Trudy berated her as the door closed behind them.

"Eh," said Janice noncommittally. "I got what I needed, didn't I? A great story."

Trudy nudged her. "You told her you wouldn't tell anyone about it."

"Unless it went public, yeah, I use that line all the time. Think she fell for it?"

"I…have my doubts."

"Hey, all's fair in love and print," Janice protested. "I didn't harp on you when you got your scoop, did I? With your little 'friend' Adrian? Took me a while to realize what you were up to." She snorted. "So-ho, he's a brainiac. Good for him, and better for you, am I right? You brought him along to dinner so he'd help you investigate."

"That is _not _why I'm dating Adrian Monk," Trudy said flatly.

"Trudy," said Janice with all sincerity, "Don't worry. I would _never_ rat on you for something like that. We reporter gals have to stick together! And seriously, kid, you do a good interview. Just do me a favor and ratchet it up a notch next time."

"O great and wise news guru, impart to me all thy secrets." _Just because I'm a couple years younger than she is…oh, well. Thank heavens she's leaving. Bye, Janice. No, I don't want to "pool our resources." Good-__**bye!**_

When she was sure Janice was gone, Trudy once more approached Professor Fleisch's door. She knocked twice, hoping the professor wouldn't realize it was Trudy until she asked the last question on her list. The element of surprise always helped.

When she heard a pair of heels tapping her way, Trudy leaned against the closed door. She had a hunch: it had to do with the name, _Arturo_, mentioned over the phone by the stranger. Was that name their connection? If she was right, it could pay off in spades.

"You say you have no family in Spain, Professor," Trudy said to the wood, "but what about Arturo?"

A wineglass shattered on the other side of the door.

_"¿Qué sabes tú de Arturo Varón?"_

Trudy smiled. She'd struck gold.

When the professor realized that Trudy knew nothing else, she refused to talk to the budding journalist. But Trudy had enough to go on, for now. She had a full name.

* * *

Monk usually sat alone in the cafeteria, but Bernard insisted on joining him for lunch in what he called, "Today's foray into the theater of the absurd."

Monk gulped as he saw the table they had picked out. It _was_ Bernard…and three of his friends. As he shook hands, he saw that their fingertips were slightly discolored.

He rubbed his napkin vigorously and tried not to think about all the chemicals that might still be on all their hands.

"Hello," said Monk. "You must be from Bernard's photography class. Group project?"

"And how," muttered one. "That course kills."

"Uh huh," Monk nodded, already on his second napkin.

"So," chuckled the guy farthest to his left, "we heard that you channeled Cyrano de Bergerac this morning… when you were trying for Pepi le Pew."

"Does that always happen?" asked the one on the right.

"No," said Monk, looking down at the table. "Usually, it's the other way around."

That made them laugh, but not cruelly. It was friendly laughter. Monk had no social training that would allow for this, so he just smiled agreeably and waited for it to be over.

Bernard leaned an elbow on the table. "So, where are you taking her?"

"She's taking me," said Monk, "but she wouldn't say where."

The guy on the left winked. "_That's _a good sign."

"Yeah." Bernard sat up straight. "Wait a minute. Isn't this the third date for you guys?"

Monk nodded wordlessly. For some reason, this just tickled them all even more.

"Dude, that's a pretty big step in a relationship."

His nerves jangled. "Is it?" _I knew I had forgotten something. It's flowers, isn't it? It's always flowers. _

One of Bernard's friends nudged Monk. "It's the first time things get…physical. At least, if you play your cards right."

"Ohhh," said Monk in understanding. "Okay, I get it." He smiled reminiscently. "Trudy and I don't have to worry. We got that over with on our second date."

All four men's mouths opened.

"Sure, it was a little awkward at first," Monk went on. "I mean, we were on the sidewalk, so everyone could see us. Oh, and in the middle of the road, too, at least the second time. We got some stares, let me tell you. But in the end," with a beatific smile, "it was _all_ worth it."

Their jaws were fast approaching the table.

Monk allowed himself to feel just a little bit smug.

Bernard, however, was scratching his head. Then he narrowed his eyes for a moment, thinking.

"Adrian, are you _sure _you're referring to the same thing we are?"

"Kissing?" supplied Monk. "Of course I am."

The round-eyed gawking dissipated into howls of laughter. Monk looked from one man to the other, wondering what he had missed. Bernard's reaction was more muted, though. In fact, he didn't look too surprised at the revelation.

"This is better than Saturday Night Live," said the student on the left. "Bernard, where'd you _find _this guy?"

"He's the gift that keeps on giving," said Bernard. "Plus I never have to clean our room. But seriously, Adrian? C'mere."

He motioned Monk closer.

"See," he whispered, "we weren't talking about kissing. Third date means…"

He lowered his voice even more as he explained.

Monk went completely still for about five seconds before slowly keeling over backward.

Flump!

The next thing Monk knew, he was on the floor, virtually paralyzed. His chest felt heavy. His head felt light. Vaguely, he was aware that the dirty cafeteria floor was the last place he wanted to be, but he simply couldn't move. In fact, he was pretty sure he wasn't going anywhere. Ever. Especially not on a third date.

"Captain Cool! You okay?"

"He just…fainted!"

"Bernard, I think you broke him."

"Should we call the nurse?"

Dazedly, Monk said, "No. You can't call the nurse. She hasn't even had _one _date with me."

Was it possible to die of mortification? Monk closed his eyes, wondering if he were about to find out.

Bernard's voice sounded from above. "He'll be fine. He's just suffering from information overload."

He helped Monk back up, Monk mumbling something incomprehensible.

"Wow, were _you _naïve before we came along. Good thing I gave you 'the talk', huh?" said Bernard, clapping him on the shoulder. "Now, you're prepared for whatever happens tonight." He waggled his eyebrows. "_Whatever _happens. Enjoy your date!"

* * *

Monk shook himself out of his stupor long enough to arrive on time for work. For a short time, he was able to push back all of the thoughts churning in the back of his head.

It was the most perfect hour in the library: right before closing. Students were thin on the ground, and most of the books were back in their proper places. The quiet seeped back into the library bit by bit, but left solitude at the door. One could never be too lonely around books, and the full-time librarian respected his privacy. Better still, it wasn't so late that some young, love-struck couple might try to sneak down into the stacks and…and…

Monk shuddered. That had been the most horrific overtime of his life. There were some acts that simply should not be performed up against the atlases of the ancient Near East.

That was how…third dating…had always shown itself to him. Monk's "education" had consisted of long periods of blissful ignorance, followed by blaring red-light revelations from the more uninhibited members of the human race. Added to that, there were frighteningly few examples in his life of people whose relationships _worked_. This was true even within his own family. His father's untimely departure from his life notwithstanding, the extent of his mother's advice to Monk on the subject was her handing him _Grey's Anatomy_ when he reached his teens, and telling him which chapters he was forbidden to access until the age of 35.

Until this year, Monk had dated so infrequently that it had never mattered. In fact, half a date was usually the best he could do. He felt himself going scarlet as he thought about the evening before him. How in the world was he going to broach the subject with Trudy? Third dating was a delicate matter, and Monk had no idea how a normal person handled the issue. Let alone the fact that he felt nowhere near ready. Would she expect him to…?

He scrunched his eyes shut.

Then he looked around. The library was deserted.

Cautiously, his eyes drifted to the phone at the reference desk. They were supposed to meet up in two hours. She would probably be in her dorm room.

He breathed deeply. He was certain that if he had to talk to her about this face to face, she would be treated to a repeat performance of his table-diving in the cafeteria. But he might, just might be able to manage a highly euphemistic phone call on the subject.

He dialed.

_Don't dig your own grave. Don't dig your own grave._

"Trudy Ellison speaking."

Monk's mouth went dry.

"Hello?" she said.

He couldn't answer.

"May I ask who's calling?" she said a little louder.

"Bancroft Library Reference Desk, how may I help you," he said automatically. Then he smacked his forehead.

"I see," she replied, giggling. "I don't think I have any books overdue, sir, but maybe I should come down there and check?"

"Yes—I mean, no—I don't know what I mean," Monk said in defeat. "Trudy, I want to talk to you, but I have no idea where to begin."

"You're not cancelling our date, are you?" she asked worriedly.

"No, no, of course not."

"Did something happen? Are you okay?"

_Why does she have to get nicer the more I make a fool of myself?_

"I'm—" Monk began, and then it all just poured out. He told her, more or less coherently, about the misunderstanding at lunch, how unprepared he felt, how he remembered her saying that this was a serious relationship, and how he was worried about what she would expect from him.

"I have no idea how to handle this kind of thing. You know, Janice might have been right," he ended, downcast. "I feel like I'll end up being either a Quaker or a pervert. Or, knowing me, both at once."

"What do you mean, knowing you?" she objected. "Those words don't sound like they fit you at all."

"_Nothing _fits me, Trudy. I'm the category marked 'other' personified."

There came the sound of her shifting around; Monk could tell she was sitting down on her bed.

"Darling," she said gently, "What do _you_ want?"

Monk swallowed. "Trudy, I—if I say the wrong thing…"

"Adrian, all you have to say right now is the truth. It's what you do best, and anything else won't help us in the long run. You don't have to be elegant or mince words. I just need to know."

Monk believed her, and that was enough.

"I don't want you in bits and pieces," he burst out, then fumbled for an explanation. "I've noticed people doing that in college. You know, they grab onto each other like they're seizing merchandise they can just run off with. They do it so…greedily, I guess…but I don't think they get whatever it is they want, because when everything ends, their hands are still empty. Does that make sense? I know, I know I'm the world's worst expert on dating, but I know that _you_ are a whole person, and _I _am…on my good days…a whole person. Trudy, that is how I want to be with you."

Her breathing was unsteady. "And…when would you want that, Adrian?"

"Well," Monk scratched his head. "When we truly belong to each other. Right? I mean, from what I hear, having a…a realthird date…is an intense experience. And if we use a _physical_ union as our foundation, we might not do justice to _this_ one…the kind we're starting to have now, that goes deeper than skin on skin."

He held the thought of _them _close to his heart. It was such a precious thing.

"I know exactly what you mean," said Trudy, her voice rather wobbly by now. "Some of my friends date that way, but I've never seen it make a relationship any stronger. Hormones lie all the time. Hearts very seldom do."

He pressed his ear against the phone. "Trudy, are you crying?"

"No!" she said, too quickly.

Monk heard a small sniffle.

"I think you're cry—"

"Dammit, Adrian Monk, I just put on my make-up!"

Monk heard her yank a few tissues from a box.

"You know," she confided to him, "I was on pins and needles, too. I got ready super-early, I was so nervous. I'm all dressed up now, because at least that was something I could control."

Monk glanced at his starched and pressed shirt. "I think I can relate."

"Anyway, all my friends swear that men only want one thing, and they won't stick around unless—"

"It's not true," Monk said firmly. "It is not that way, Trudy. Not with me."

He heard her blow her nose in the background. With anyone else, he would have held the receiver away from his face, but some long-hidden instinct told him to bring her closer, not farther from him.

"I was, um, thinking," he stammered. "We don't have to wait two hours to meet up, right? You come down to the library, if you wanted. Take all your make-up off, I don't care. I just really want to spend time with you right now."

He heard her shoes touch down on the floor.

"I'll be there in ten. See you soon, handsome."

* * *

Trudy had her mind made up. She dispensed with the heels, the skirt, the jewelry, and put on her white tennis shoes and jeans. She grabbed the backpack full of her notes, locked her dorm door, and raced outside.

She gave a little twirl of delight as an autumn gust engulfed her. The sun was just about to hide its face in the trees, leaving the air brisk but without the sting of cold. There would be moonlight in an hour, and then she would tug Adrian Monk from his library lair and see if she could make him love the outdoors just a little.

The dark of the library was velvety soft. Trudy had to look twice for the light. In a far corner, a warm lamp glowed the color of parchment, and two huge, green armchairs had been nudged together. Adrian was in one of them. His eyes were intensely on a very large book, which told Trudy right away that he'd seen her.

She smiled inwardly and made her way over, pausing just a tad towards the end of the row to consider him. He was as combed and buttoned-up as ever, but his posture wasn't ramrod-straight; he was reclining into the chair.

Her spirits rose. He wasn't tense, as she'd feared. He was starting to relax his boundaries around her.

Trudy eyed the other armchair.

"Is this mine?" she questioned, indicating the chair to her left.

Adrian's eyes peered over the edge of his book. He nodded. Then he moved her chair ever so slightly closer to his.

Trudy carefully hid the warmth that she felt at the simple gesture. She wanted, more than ever, to make him feel as appreciated as she did. A thought had just come to her: she could surprise him. Could she pull it off just like that day at the restaurant? He was difficult to trick, but…

"Hmmm," Trudy said out loud as she set her backpack down. "I'm not so sure that's the best idea." She calmly put the second chair back in its place and tried her best not to look as gleeful as she felt.

Adrian, as predicted, was disappointed. Mechanically, he lowered the book away from his face.

Then she casually laid an arm on the back of his chair and whispered into his ear.

"I'm sorry, Adrian."

He nodded sadly.

"See, I'm afraid I'll have to squish you. Just a little, though."

Slowly, so as not to alarm him, Trudy grabbed hold of his chair arm and squeezed herself in next to him.

The book Adrian was holding dropped from his hands.

_Gotcha again, _thought Trudy in triumph.

As she settled in comfortably, she reminded herself not to look him in the eye just yet. Week knees weren't as romantic as they snuggled closer, though, and leaned into his chest. His arm found its way to her shoulders and held her firmly against him. There was just enough room for them both.

His eyes were riveted to her face. Trudy gasped for air, and mistakenly chalked it up to a lack of breathing room. To recover herself, she leaned out and unzipped her backpack. She pulled out her notes from the interview.

At that moment, Trudy saw Adrian's book on the floor. _I should get it for him,_ she thought, forgetting about her notes, which started sliding off her lap. She reached for the book, Adrian for the notes, and they both bumped heads and saw stars.

"Oh!"

"Ow!"

The book and papers tumbled to the floor between them.

They eyed each other sheepishly. To her surprise, it was Adrian who started to laugh. Trudy joined in, meeting his eyes at last.

She was glad she did.

"Can _you_ breathe all right, Adrian?" she asked at last.

"Not really."

"Oh. Well, then I—"

"No, Trudy. Don't. Don't get up. I don't care."

He leaned down, put the notes back on her lap, and effortlessly straightened them out without even touching her legs.

"I had to sit right next to you, you see," she told him. "I thought you might want to have a look."

Abruptly, she blushed.

"I, mean, at the papers!" she clarified quickly.

_Why did I just say that? Of course he knew I meant the papers! Why am I so—so—_

Before she knew it, his hand squeezed her shoulder comfortingly.

"It's all right," he said, his eyes gentle. "I get tongue-tied around you, too. And by the way…" he reached over and tenderly moved the papers from her lap to his. "I _would_ like to see the interview." He smiled at her. "We have a mystery on our hands, after all. It doesn't get much better than this."

It was almost poetic, the way he moved around her. She had never before been moved by a man _almost_ touching her.

_I'm either in love or in trouble, _thought Trudy.

He stroked her hair. "Tell me what you think of Magda Fleisch."

Trudy sighed. "She is …less than open about whatever's going on, but I don't think she bears the blame for any of it. I can't find a motive for any illegal activities on her part, or on her family's."

"And she was too young when she left Spain to have committed a crime there," he added. "Only eight."

Trudy stared at him.

Adrian held up her notes.

"You read all that just now?" she said in disbelief.

"Well, skimmed it."

"You are incredible. But to get back on track, he's still following her. That man! I haven't seen much of him, just a glimpse near the professor here and there—"

"Here and there? At different times of day?"

She thought for a moment. "Yes, now that you mention it."

He shook his head gravely. "Not good. It means he's been dogging her all the time, and he's very adept at it. He might even have spotted you."

"But what is he after?"

His face darkened. "I can't figure that out, either. She's been stressed for several days now, right? If he wants something, why hasn't he made his move? There's been no robbery, no kidnapping, no physical harm of any kind."

"And we're sure he's not stalking her just for laughs? I mean, Janice thinks—"

"—let me guess, she thinks he's a run-of-the-mill creep," said Adrian dismissively. "Would you follow a woman across the Atlantic ocean just for the heck of it? I wouldn't. No, I think he's being paid to watch her. Maybe by someone else who cares more about her than he does." He shrugged. "I mean, it's obvious he doesn't love her."

"Obviously," Trudy repeated with a sly look his way. "He hasn't even called her from the reference desk."

"Hey! That does it, Miss Ellison, you're off this case."

"I can't be off the case, it's my case!"

"Your case? Oh, I see how it is. You want all the glory for yourself."

"Surely, Mr. Monk, you know by now that I only let you tag along because you're cute!"

Something heavy slammed against the library doors, stifling their mirth in an instant.

Faint cursing could be heard, then a fumble for the door handle. The doors creaked open and shut.

They were no longer alone.

Like lightning, Adrian turned off the lamp. Trudy heard him grab the heavy book and slowly rise from the chair.

A patter of feet was fast approaching. The sound stopped far too close to them.

Trudy tensed. If it was _that_ man, they stood no chance, she was sure.

Was he armed? Had he seen them?

Then, to her surprise, she heard giggling!

"What the," she began, but Adrian had already figured it out.

"Dammit," he said raggedly. "They come in here sometimes. I'd rather have rats."

It was then that she heard the _other_ sounds.

"Mmm, Sherry."

"Steven, I…ohhh…"

Clothing that was not theirs rustled in the darkness.

Trudy looked for a quick exit as her eyes adjusted to the low light. Adrian, though, had other ideas.

"Stop those shenanigans right now!" he yelled. He got up and ran toward the sound of the noises. "Hey. HEY! Don't you dare defile those books, you animals!"

If the entwined couple heard him, they didn't acknowledge it. The sounds increased, and Trudy could tell that Adrian didn't dare approach them now. Her concern for him overcame her reserve and she traced his steps until she came upon Adrian backed up against the card catalog. He was hyperventilating, his knees were buckling, and his hands were over his ears.

Not knowing what else to do, she bent down and patted his head.

"Adrian? Adrian, it's all right. Adrian, come here, we'll fix this."

"Do you know what's over there?" he whimpered. "The English Book of Common Prayer. Every copy we have."

He was right. They _were _animals. Trudy made a snap decision.

"Adrian, where are the lights?"

Unsteadily, he pointed.

She raced over to the row of switches and flipped them all on.

Thankfully, she heard the ardent couple pause.

_Now that we have their attention…_

"Wow, Adrian, this place is great!" she exclaimed. Her words echoed in the ensuing silence. "I _knew _after hours was the perfect time to take photos of the library."

From her bag, she retrieved the camera she used for snapping candid shots on campus.

She made sure to use the flash. Luckily for them both, the camera had a loud shutter.

CLICK!

"Oh, no, that one didn't come out so well."

CLICK!

"Maybe if I get a closer look at these shelves," she continued her monologue.

Sherry and Steven were making noises again, but these were more along the lines of, "Argh!", "Let go!", and "Where's my shirt? Where's my shirt?!"

Five photos of the library floor later, the other couple made a hasty departure out the back door, tripping over their half-laced shoes and swearing drunkenly.

Trudy closed her eyes. Ahh, sweet victory.

* * *

Monk was still in a state of semi-shock when the lights went on. By the time Trudy set the camera clicking, his panic had subsided, and he was able to climb to his feet.

It was happening. He was happy. Again!He'd never tasted revenge this sweet—and it wasn't even his revenge! It was borrowed revenge, and it had still made his night.

Trudy appeared from around a corner. He walked over to her, his rescuer, and took both her hands.

"That," he said, "was beautifully done."

She smiled modestly.

"Sorry if my hands are sweaty," he mumbled.

"Adrian…"

"I know, I don't care either."

They stood hand in hand. Monk's eyes took in every feature of her face as if they weren't already engraved on his memory. It was like magic. Every moment, she was new to him all over again.

"Thank goodness you had that camera with you," said Monk. "You're right. Curiosity does pay off, sometimes."

Trudy held up a key. "Plus, there are the hidden advantages, too."

Monk peered at it. "What's that?"

She spun the key ring around her finger. "A copy of the key to the padlock at the botanical gardens." She gave him a triumphant smile. "Last year, one of the gardeners tried to steal a bromeliad to make a few bucks. I helped cover the story, and I got a 'temporary' copy of the key to the front gate." She dangled it affectionately in front of his nose. "I've only been once after hours, but it's _lovely_ at nightfall. Care for an adventure?"

Monk gingerly pinched the key between his fingers.

"Um," he said helpfully. It was the best he could do, since at the moment his head was full of, _Break the rules? It's Trudy. What about the library? Third date! Break the rules? I wonder what this means. Will I have to walk on the grass?! It's—_

_"_Trudy," Monk's voice said, his brain still in overdrive. "Great. Fine. It's." He rubbed the bridge of his nose. "What I mean to say is, yes." He straightened his shirt. "Let's go!"

Impulsively, she kissed him on the cheek. "Don't worry," she said, her eyes intense in that special way that meant she was reading him. "I promise we'll keep off the grass."

Reading him like an open book, apparently.

"Trudy?"

"Hmm?"

"You'll make a _great_ journalist one day."

* * *

Bam! Bam! Bam!

Janice folded a newspaper almost as tall as she was and squinted through the curtains at the nebulous figure outside. It didn't look like one of her roommates' dates, but who else would have come to call this late at night?

"Male, Caucasian, mid-forties," she sized him up through the curtains. "This had better be good."

She rose to her feet, newspaper still in her hand. Carefully, she unbolted the door and opened it.

"I'll be damned," she said. "It's you!"

The stranger, who fit her previous description to a tee, bowed his head in greeting.

"Janice Ellinghouse," he said in a deep voice with a veneer of pleasantry. "I think you have been looking for me."

His eyes took in the empty foyer searchingly, aggressively.

"You are alone?"

"Got it in one," said Janice, unafraid.

Confusion flitted briefly across his face.

"Ah ha," said Janice. "Not familiar with that expression? I knew you were foreign."

"As a matter of fact, I am," he agreed. "I thought you would know that, a good reporter like you. You've been following me all week, have you not?"

Janice was tempted to shake him up by saying she wasn't the only one, but the urge to have this story to herself was too much to resist.

"Yes, I've followed you," she reproved him. "Stalking is a popular pastime around here."

"Ah ha ha, yes, very…droll. Is that the word?" He slid a tiny dictionary into his hand and flipped through it with practiced ease. "It is the word. Very good. May I enter?"

"Come in." Janice ushered him past the doorway with seeming indifference. She rested her right hand on the wall behind her, inches from the fire alarm in case he was trouble. "I'll talk to you, if you talk to me."

"I understand," he said. "You are concerned about Magda. But we'll get to that later."

He reached into his coat and brought out an envelope.

"I will now deliver your mail," he said. "That is a very prestigious school you got accepted to in Madrid."

Janice briefly lost focus.

"Oh, my God!" she exclaimed. "My study abroad application went through? Yessss! Madrid, here I come, baby!"

He smiled thinly. "I am glad you approve. We are not so different, you and I."

She turned her attention back to him.

_I'd better handle this delicately…_

"Hah! Tell me another."

_Eh, discretion is overrated._

"No, it's true," he protested. "You follow me, and I follow Magda Fleisch. Why? We both have a nose for investigation."

He handed her his card.

"Gregorio Mendez," Janice read. "_El País! _I've heard of that paper. One of the best in—"

"_The _best in Spain," he interrupted. "Government scandals are our specialty. That is why I traveled here, to Berkeley." There was that smile again. "_We _take a dim view of those who allied themselves with the government of Franco, and I thought your professor might be such a one."

Something _pinged_ off of Janice's mental sonar. The way he said "we"—with a passion, almost—made her think that maybe he wasn't referring to the paper when he said it. But all else left her thoughts as Gregorio went on.

"For a while, we thought she might have some bad connections," he explained. "But after looking into the matter, we realized that was wrong. A journalistic failure, I fear."

Janice began to warm up to him. "I've had a few in my day."

"I am hopeful, however, that my time here has not been for…what is that word…"

"Naught?" Janice offered.

"Yes; my thanks," nodded Gregorio. "I do not wish to return to Madrid empty-handed."

Another envelope appeared out of his pocket.

"This is for you," he said. "It's an internship offer from _El País._ I could use your help on an exposé I'm working on. You will be a real reporter, I promise. None of this fetching coffee nonsense. You see," he stroked his beard, "we have come to realize that our paper lacks a female voice. When I saw you tracking me, I knew you were the one I should choose. I hope you will round us out, a bit."

Janice eyed the envelope reverently. "Wow," she said, awed. "This is an honor…"

Her gaze sharpened on him. "Is it paid?"

"You'll be compensated the dollar equivalent of a full-time employee."

"It's _such_ an honor," she repeated.

He looked pleased. "I'm glad I was in the neighborhood," he said. "Circumstances have conspired to unite us, Janice Ellinghouse. You will be the ideal…journalist. I am sure of it. After all," he laughed loudly, "you were the only one smart enough to catch me at my own game!"

"That's right," Janice lied. "The only one."

Then she felt a pinch of guilt. Maybe she could offer Trudy something in return for hogging Gregorio's attention.

"You know," she said casually, "there's a friend of mine who applied to the same program that I did. She's brilliant; I'll bet her acceptance letter is on its way right now. I wonder if maybe…I know it's asking a lot, but…"

"A second intern?" Gregorio mused.

"Trudy Ellison. She's first-rate, promise."

"It would make things much less suspicious to have two," he said half to himself. Then he looked at her and his tone changed. "Two American college girls in the office, I mean." He gestured to himself. "An old man with _one_ young blonde under his wing? Tongues will wag. I don't have to tell you."

"No, sir," said Janice, palming the second envelope. "You don't."

"When can I expect you in Spain, Ms. Ellinghouse?"

"Early October," said Janice promptly, "and I'm staying until February, at the end of the Spanish semester."

"Perfect! _Un placer de conocerte_."

"No, sir, the pleasure is mine."

They shook hands, and he left, shutting the door hard behind him.

Janice hugged the envelope to her chest, giddy with excitement.

"Wait 'til Trudy finds out about this!"

* * *

_This is, by far, the best day of my life,_ Monk reveled.

The wind blew a few leaves over their shoes, but Monk was so busy admiring the stand of pines she was showing him that he hardly noticed. The dark here was not like the library. It was a tingling, living sort of twilight. It breathed with the long grass and diaphanous clouds that veiled the moon. Trudy now looked up, pointing out the stars she could see, breathless. He didn't know exactly why, so he tried it.

_What do you know. They are beautiful. They're scattered all over the place…but lovely._

They strolled leisurely, arm in arm, between two rows of trees.

"Can you guess _anyone's_ thoughts from their expressions?" Monk asked her at last.

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and flashed him a grin. "No, Adrian. It's not a science. It's just a cinch with _certain people_ who can't ever bring themselves to lie."

"I can force myself to lie if I have to," Monk defended himself, and then wondered why he was doing so. In relationships, honesty was a good thing.

Was it? Wasn't it?

_Oh, boy._

To distract himself, he looked up at the sky again. The embarrassment slowly drained away, leaving only the rush of wind and the smell of autumn flowers.

Trudy poked him in the shoulder to get his attention. "_You_ can lie? When was the last time you did?"

"Four years ago, when I told my mother I was mailing letters to the city health inspector," Monk said promptly.

"And you were…?"

"I was filling out college applications," Monk answered. "I had put it off for a year. She didn't want me to go; kept telling me it was bad for my health. She said…she said I should stay home where it was safe."

Trudy's eyes widened in shock and compassion. "I can't believe she would do that! What happened when she found out?"

"She packed my suitcase for me and wouldn't look at me for a week." _I should probably leave out the stuff she sneaked in there that I threw away. The lunchbox…the night-light… the name of the nearest day care center…_

Trudy shook her head. "My parents were over the moon when I graduated early and got accepted to Berkeley. Did she want to cripple you socially?"

"Oh, she got _that_ over with years ago," Monk said frankly. "She would call the high school and tell the nurse all of the things she thought I was probably allergic to, just in case. She wouldn't let me learn to drive…I could go on, but I won't. She had manacles where other moms had aprons strings." Raising his voice, he added, "I'm done with that stage of my life. I want to, you know, actually _live_. Or at least—at least try, even if I'm no good at it. If I can do even one thing, one little thing, to make the world not such a mess…I will have lived, and won."

Her eyes sparkled just the way they had at the Willie Nelson concert.

He was glad that he remembered.

He was _glad!_

Trudy pulled a few lavender sprigs from a bush and inhaled the scent happily.

"You don't think you're brave," she told him through the flowers. "I can tell. But you are, Adrian Monk. Just you watch."

He eyed her reverently.

"I—I think I'm too busy watching you…"

Trudy let go of the lavender. He bent to catch it, but she stopped him.

_Why did she—oh._

As it turned out, the flowers would have been in the way.

They walked to the end of the path and tiptoed toward the garden gate.

Monk sighed as the trees rustled in the wind. People like Sherry and Steven didn't know what they were missing. Going to the library for a date? Making out with their backs against hardcover books? That didn't hold a candle to sneaking into this place at night with a gorgeous woman on his arm. He couldn't believe it…he was _cooler_ than they were!

_Some people, _Monk thought, shaking his head._ I guess they just need to get out more._

* * *

A phone rang nine time zones away.

"La oficina de—"

"Arturo, I've got her. We have our dupe. Get everything set with the police. She arrives next month, with a friend. I didn't think of picking a woman, but this is perfect: she has no chance of winning in a struggle with me."

"You are sure she will open the safe?"

Gregorio slapped his knee, guffawing.

"Arturo, my friend. You must trust. Her kind will do _anything_ to get hold of a scandal, and the story I'll feed her will be…"

He stopped and consulted his pocket dictionary.

"_Nonpareil_, Arturo. Nonpareil."

* * *

Thanks for reading, and please review!


	4. Rivalries

Disclaimer: I do not own _Monk _or any of its character, plotlines, etc.

* * *

**Happy Thanksgiving, readers ! In this chapter, Monk has a…conversation…with Drew, and Trudy meets Monk's mother. Many thanks to Akari for beta-ing.**

* * *

**Chapter Three: Rivalries**

_Russian? Nope. Greek? Maybe if…no. Catalan? No, that's not it. Well, Trudy, you sure know how to pick 'em. "Euska-something." Ah, well. Let's try this other book._

As soon as the library opened on Monday, Monk had started ransacking the shelves for books that might reveal the stalker's origin. To be fair, he could have gotten in earlier than that, if he'd wanted to make judicious use of the favor he'd built up with the head librarian. Monk had been preoccupied with other important matters, namely wandering around campus whistling, daydreaming, having one-way conversations with Bernard, and gift shopping. True, he might not be up to his usual exacting standards, but that was all right. He was sure of it now.

Monk hadn't questioned the authority of his own negativity for a very long time. Now, all it did was anger him.

Why shouldn't he be happy? Why _should _he play it safe? Where had that ever gotten him, really? Playing it safe had never made him immune from harm, when he really thought about it, and in all honesty, it hadn't done him all that much good. Monk figured that if the universe was out to get him, it would find a way no matter what he did, so until any irony gods worked their dark magic, he would just do what he wanted.

_Maybe,_ Monk pondered,_ maybe this is how normal people think! _He looked himself up and down. _Normal. It could happen. It's not completely against the laws of the universe. Well, not against _all _the laws…_

There was that warning voice again.

_To you-know-where with you,_ Monk fumed.

He was going to be a rebel.

A student handed him a book to stamp, and Monk very deliberately placed the due date off center.

Hah! It worked!

Monk did some more searching in the Foreign Languages section. Fortunately, there were enough books in English on the European languages that he didn't have to rely on a hunch to pull one book after another off the shelves. Not that it was helping all that much. He had looked at books on Germanic and Romance languages, and even went as far back as Indo-European, without the slightest hint of success.

The desk phone rang. In his surprise, Monk slammed a drawer shut, then looked hastily around to see if anyone had noticed.

No one called the library this early on Monday morning. Maybe…it could be…_Has she found a lead in the case?_ Monk wondered. _Or, _he blushed_, maybe she's just calling to talk to me._ That would just about be the top of the world.

Monk eagerly answered the phone.

_It's rebel time!_

"There's chicks… just ripe for some kissin'," he sang into the mouthpiece. "And I mean...to kiss me a few!"

There was silence.

Monk tapped the phone, making sure it was working.

"You there, cutie pie?"

The voice that responded was male.

"Mom, you were right. College is having a negative psychological impact on Adrian's health!"

Monk's mood deflated. "Hello, Ambrose."

"It's all right, Adrian," said his brother. "I'm just glad I knew this was your shift at the library. Don't worry. 911 responds very quickly in this area."

Monk sighed. "Ambrose, I am breakdown-free, thank you. I was just enjoying life. That's not grounds for being institutionalized, at least not outside ourfamily."

Ambrose thought it over. "You don't sound like you're on the verge of nervous collapse," he ventured.

"Exactly," Monk encouraged him.

"So there can only be one conclusion. Adrian, I know you despise controlled

substances, but my research indicates that _cannabis sativa _is used recreationally among students your age. I hypothesize that in the interests of 'fitting in'—"

"Ambrose, I am _not high_!"

"You were singing."

"I am _happy."_

Pause. "You were singing."

Monk sat down in defeat. This was going to be a long and pain-riddled conversation.

He decided to take the initiative. "Tell me, Ambrose. How are things inside?"

"Wonderful: they're exactly the same. Except that the night you left we were having couscous, and now," sadly, "I think it's baked salmon."

"That's certainly a…shocker. Listen, Ambrose, you gotta hang up. Trudy Ellison might call." He couldn't resist bragging a bit. "We're an _item._"

He heard his older brother drop the receiver.

"Hello? Oh, good, you're still there. I know it's a lot to take in. I've changed since I left, and I feel _so _much better. Trudy's the real thing, Ambrose. I mean, she _exists. _She's completely un-imaginary! Who'd have thought? Anyway…yes, I PROMISE she's real, Ambrose. She's on Clark Kerr Campus, Room 106. Journalism major. "

_"Is that Adrian?" _said his mother's voice from a distance._ "Tell him I hope he still washes behind his ears four times a day!"_

Monk felt a tremor up his spine. "Ambrose, um, I have to go. Really, really have to. Say hi to Mom for me."

"Adrian, Mom says she wants to talk."

"Tell her I'm busy, or sick, or hallucinating. Take your pick. Just make sure she doesn't find out about Trudy, okay?"

"Adrian, she says if you don't talk, she'll go berserk!"

"Well, don't let her hold it in on my account. Good-bye!"

Humming, he started to straighten the desk. Two pencils were not put away, and a stack of papers was crooked.

On the other hand…he paused.

Come to think of it, the desk was fine. It was not perfect, but maybe it didn't need to be. The rest of the world was in order, for now. The desk would take care of itself.

_Gotta move, cause time is a-wastin',_

_There's such a lot of livin' to do!_

* * *

Trudy paced up and down her bedroom, the acceptance letter clutched in her hand. She looked up at the ceiling she had papered with La Alhambra, and wondered; she looked at the Adrian framed on her nightstand table, and was wretched. She slumped down on her bed, head aching and heart quickly going numb.

She had filled the application at the end of the summer, before he had come into her life. It meant a chance at freedom. She could be tried against life's anvil and see what she was made of. The job she could snap up—just like that!—at _El país _electrified her in the very best, deepest way. If her words flourished there, it could make her career.

Here it all was, tight in her grasp. Hope and challenge. Fear and separation. It was not a matter of turning down the offer; to do that would be an act of self-betrayal. It would make her something less than the woman Adrian had fallen for. No, the updraft of change was already there. She had to ride the current as best she could.

She glanced up. Iberia beckoned.

She glanced down.

_Oh, Lord._

It became too much. Trudy rummaged through a drawer stuffed with old cassettes and found the loudest rock music she owned. She put in the tape, cranked the volume, and listened until she couldn't hear the din the world was making as it hammered on her door.

Trudy somehow fell asleep, mid-afternoon though it was, and the next sound she heard was someone switching off the noise.

"Hey," she groaned into her pillow. "Allow me some consolation, alright? I'm too young to buy a drink, so this is all I have."

"You need not fear," a deep voice boomed. "Drink all you want in Spain."

Trudy's eyes flicked open.

She knew that voice.

Language barrier be damned. She knew it.

The image of that stare of contempt swam before her eyes.

Trudy jerked her head up and reached for the lamp. Maybe, if she could just get in one good hit—

"Sorry, Ellison, didn't mean to interrupt your cat nap," added Janice's voice. "I just wanted you to meet an Associate Editor at _El país."_

Janice? Here? With _him?_

Somehow, Trudy's thoughts coalesced in spite of her half-sleep and terror.

Ever so slowly, Trudy adjusted her posture, moved her hand up the neck of the lamp, and casually switched it on.

She smoothly sat up, brushing her hair out of her eyes and trying her best to look bleary. "Associate Editor?" she said, pretending not to recognize him. "For a moment, Janice, I thought you'd brought a professor over for the evening!"

A smile hovered about the man's lips. "Didn't I tell you, Miss Ellinghouse? Easier to have two."

Janice went through the introductions and explanations, which gave Trudy enough time to get a grip on what was transpiring. Fortunately, Janice seemed to dance rather delicately around the matter of Trudy following around…Gregorio Mendez…if that's what his name truly was. Trudy voiced no objections to her friend's white lies, and Janice got more and more relieved as her story was allowed to unfold intact. Trudy for one didn't have the slightest motivation for calling attention to herself. She just hoped that this Gregorio hadn't recognized her from—

"I met you once, at a restaurant, no, Miss Ellison?"

_Terrific._

Trudy scratched her head. "It, uh, wasn't by the bathrooms, by any chance?"

"Yes. I'm glad you did not fully fall."

Trudy gave him her blandest smile.

He gave her a measuring look, but not a piercing one. This was important; Trudy had the feeling he gave everyone the once-over that she now underwent. There was no undercurrent of malice in his eyes, nothing personal about his scrutiny. In fact, there was no real interest whatsoever.

_So, this is Janice's partner in crime,_ Trudy thought grimly. _Should have known. I wonder why he wanted me to have the internship, too? _She went over Janice's story in her mind again. _Oh, yeah. Janice felt guilty for sidelining me on the stalker scoop. You go right ahead and curry his favor, Janice. I really don't like the way he's looking at you._

Indeed, as Gregorio offered to take them both to the cafeteria for a quick meal, Trudy realized that Gregorio slid past her as if she were an afterthought. His behavior towards Janice was genial, attentive, and gloating. Janice was flattered by the attention, Trudy could see, and she didn't know how she was going to talk Janice out of trusting this man.

The perplexing thing was, Gregorio's credentials seemed to be genuine. He knew much of politics, people, and the constant crush of time in the newsroom. They talked a long time; Trudy couldn't figure him out. Of course, she wasn't trying her hardest: she'd have to be dumber than a brick to ask _him _about the language she had heard over the phone.

Trudy excused herself early and left the other two chatting, oblivious. She didn't even need the excuse that she was supposed to meet Adrian at eight.

Trudy thought hard as she walked toward his and Bernard's room. There was still no real reason not to go along with the job. Whatever Gregorio was after, it sure wasn't Trudy, and she wasn't going to let his presence or the mystery ruffle her chance at a wonderful semester in Spain.

She put a hand across her face. Two intensely bright eyes peered out at her from her memory.

A wonderful, wretched semester.

* * *

He was straightening his roommate's film strips when she walked in. She had heard that he was organizing Bernard's project for him; maybe if she struck up a conversation about that, the inevitable could be delayed for a minute or two.

His face brightened as he heard her step in the doorway. The words she would say died on her lips.

_That smile will be the death of me_.

"Trudy!" His eyes lit up. "You know, you shine even on a gloomy day. Here."

He retrieved something from his pocket and tipped it into her hand.

Guiltily avoiding his eyes, she mumbled her thanks.

The gift was wrapped in silver paper; it was about half the size of her palm. Trudy unfolded the paper carefully so that she wouldn't drop whatever was…

"Adrian! Is that a _camera?_"

"Buttonhole camera," he said proudly. "Bernard helped me find one, well, once I got him to listen to me. I figured you could use it in some sort of journalistic endeavor. Besides, I don't think _you _will use it in the locker rooms."

She hugged him tightly. "If you're in there, Adrian, all bets are off."

"Ahh," he said uncomfortably, "I'd never go in there. Not with out a, you know."

"Blindfold?" she teased.

"Straightjacket."

She laughed and held her gift up between thumb and forefinger.

"Smile, Mr. Monk!"

"W-what? No, no, don't—"

Click.

"It's not very loud, either," said Trudy thoughtfully. "I wonder if I 'accidentally' left it in your closet…"

"Trudy!" he exclaimed.

"Or maybe that briefcase I've seen you tote to class…where is that thing?"

Over his protests, she bent down and looked under his bed. "Aha!" She reached out for it. She wouldn't really open it without Adrian's permission, but he got cuter the more he blushed.

_Hey, what's this? _thought Trudy as she spied an object on top of the briefcase.

It was another present!

She reached her hand out.

"DON'T!" he yelled, and then tried not to look as upset as he was. "Please, it's not for now. Not yet. Not unless…" He looked down at his hands. "Please, Trudy, not yet."

She stood up and comfortingly rubbed his arms. "All right. It's all right, I won't touch it. It did have my name on it, though."

She smiled her sweetest at him, hoping he wouldn't look so distressed. At least, not until she told him where she would be that October.

_I could always let him know about Spain later. Much later. _

"Are you planning ahead, darling? Is that it?" she asked him. "My birthday isn't for a while yet."

His smile wavered. "Yes, you could call it planning for all contingencies."

Something warned her that she was treading on dangerous ground. She didn't know why.

Then her inner reporter kicked in. She had to ask.

"Adrian, what is it?"

He looked steadily at his desk. "It's good-bye."

She inhaled sharply. _He knows, _she thought desperately. _Of course, _

_I should have realized he would figure out I was going away! Trudy, what were you thinking?_

Then he pointed to the card that matched the box.

"I bought it after our first date," he said. "I'll sign it at the end. I edit it every time we date, so you'll know how much each one meant to me, afterwards."

"Huh?" said Trudy, wrinkling her forehead. "Adrian, I'm sorry, but I have no idea what you mean." _Whatever this is, it's not about my going to Madrid._

"I told you," said Monk, as if it were obvious. "It's my good-bye card. For when you…" he faltered for an instant "…break up with me. A woman like you would never stay with me, I know that." His smile was pained but not bitter. "I just want you to know how much joy you have brought to my life. When you're ready, it will be there for you."

Trudy rocked back on her heels. She trembled so hard she almost dropped her purse. Her love and her guilt thudded painfully in her chest.

_How. How can I possibly tell him I'm going away?_

He turned back to her. "I hope you'll like it…" Adrian's words faded as his gaze swept her face.

Too late, Trudy realized she looked every inch as guilty as she felt.

_Oops._

He fell back like he'd been steamrolled.

"Oh, no," he whispered. "No! Oh, God, no!"

"Adrian, Adrian, wait," she tried.

His sharp eyes went dull, blank. His hands moved to his shirt. He straightened his collar, twisted the buttons until the holes were parallel.

He wasn't helping her sense of regret. Trudy tried vainly to hide her feelings, knowing he had misread the situation, but her own love for him made her helpless. He knew the truth in her eyes, if not the reason behind it; any attempt at a denial would make her look like a liar.

"Adrian, I said _wait_! You don't understand!"

He turned away from her. Without a word, he sat down at the desk, hands limp at his sides.

Not knowing what else she could do, she planted a kiss in his hair.

He jerked away like she'd slapped him.

"Don't do that," he said weakly, "Not—not now. Not—oh, will you look at that. This desk is a mess. What was I thinking?"

He started straightening out the pencils.

Trudy cursed her inner reporter like she never had before.

"I don't _want _to leave, all right? I don't want to, but I _must. _It just fell into my lap. I need to do this." She fumbled for his hand and squeezed it. "And as much as I want you all to myself, it's…well, it's not fair to expect you to wait for me for an entire semester."

Before he could ask what she meant, she slipped the acceptance letter onto his desk.

"Trudy," he said with feeling as he unfolded it. "I would always wait. I would al…ways…Facultad de Filosofía y Letras, Universidad de Madrid?" He sounded the words out tentatively.

Trudy remembered that he didn't speak Spanish.

"It says—"

But it had taken him only a heartbeat to figure it out.

"Study abroad? _That's _what this is all about?"

"Yes. And an internship; here, I'll explain, it's the least I can do." To get a handle on herself, Trudy went at the issue full-tilt, including Janice, Gregorio, her worries about her fish allergy versus Spanish cuisine, and her (rather late) realization that even though she had fallen for him head over heels, it would be unfair to expect him to maintain a long-distance relationship.

At this, he eyed her dead-on.

It was the most eloquent _Oh, really?_ that she'd ever seen.

Trudy went red. "Yeah, well," she stuttered, "four months is a long time, sweetheart. Longer than you think!"

He stared harder.

She wondered if it were possible to turn purple from embarrassment.

"Look, someday you might change your mi—"

Ever so slightly, he raised his eyebrows.

Sure that the egg on her face was about to fry, Trudy broke the stare and instead fixed her eyes on…on…

_Rats._

The wall on his side of the room was totally blank.

"On the up side," she said to a particularly interesting plaster crack, "I can get more information on Gregorio. Before you tell me to be careful, may I remind you that he seems to be oblivious to the fact that I followed him? He only has eyes for Janice, poor thing." On the spur of the moment, she turned around. "By the way, Adrian, I advise you to throw away that other gift."

Adrian shrugged lightly. "We'll see."

"Meaning…?"

"Four months _is _a long time, Trudy. There are men out there handsomer and more charismatic than me."

She rounded on him. "So, you don't think I'll stay true to you, as sure as you are of yourself?"

"Trudy, look at _me_. Then look at _you_."

"Oh, thank goodness you think that I'm _shallow, _instead!"

"You don't have to be shallow to dump me," he argued. "People are attracted to people who are _attractive. _I've had women respect my intelligence before; even more women have pitied me. But love's different, Trudy. It's just how things are."

"Adrian? Right now, I am completely devoid of pity. _Throw. that. gift. out_."

"We'll see."

She made a dive for the bed; he caught her around the waist. There was a struggle, spectacularly ineffective on both sides, but over soon enough when Trudy's left shoe came off and Adrian slipped on a fallen film strip. A few seconds later, she was reaching for him instead of the gift, and he had ceased to hold her back and just held her.

"Give up?" she said breathlessly.

"We'll s—ouch! Did you just pinch me?"

"Right at the ribs. And every time you say 'We'll see,' I'll go two inches lower."

_Now, here's where any other man would wiggle his eyebrows and spout innuendo, turning playful fun all awkward. Three…two…one…_

"I give up! I give up I give up I give up!"

_I have the best boyfriend in the universe._

He didn't dare look at her, but she could tell he was happy again.

"Have a great time, Trudy. And…write me?"

She nodded against his chin.

_Guess this means I have you to myself, come hell or high water, _she thought. _You're _my_ man, you hear?_

To her chagrin, she realized she'd said those last words out loud.

He didn't seem to mind. "I'm yours, Trudy…whatever I am."

* * *

The shadows lengthened on Monk's blank wall, and the campus settled down for the night. It was almost nine, now. They were still hugging. Trudy lifted her head away from his shoulder long enough to ask if he would mind helping her make a packing list, since he was so good at organizing.

He agreed right away, and they headed over to her room across campus.

Unfortunately, they had hardly started on toothpaste when there was a polite knock at the door.

Monk rolled his eyes. _I'm practically invisible to everyone here, except when I actually want to be alone._

Two seconds later, a less polite knock followed. By the time Monk arrived at the door, the knock had become decidedly bad-tempered.

_Whoever that is_, he thought irritably, _you better not have made a single campus infraction. _

"Please," begged Trudy, "not Janice. Tell me it's not more 'breaking news.'"

Monk opened the door a crack. He gave a violent start and heaved it shut.

"Not," he croaked out.

His head sank into his hands.

"It's my mother!"

Trudy made a delighted sound—_little does she know_, Monk thought—and tugged him away from the door.

"Come on," she said. "She can't be that bad. Everyone exaggerates when they talk about their parents."

"Did you stretch the truth when you told me your parents were wonderful?"

"Well, no, I guess not…"

"She is the bane of my life, full stop. No, don't, don't open the door!"

Too late.

Monk watched in despair as Trudy gave his mother her hundred-watt smile.

"Hello, I'm Trudy Ellison. Mrs. Monk?"

She held out her hand.

Monk's mother narrowed her eyes and gave Trudy's hand two shakes, then wiped her own on her handkerchief.

"I am the mother of Adrian Monk. I have come to call out of concern for my son."

Monk propelled himself forward by sheer force of will. "Hello, Mother. It's very…to see you again."

"Adrian," Mrs. Monk rapped out, "your sentence is incomplete."

"That's okay, I'm sure you'll take the liberty of filling it in."

He winced under her glare.

"Wait," he said. "How did you know Trudy lived here?"

His mother merely tapped her foot irately.

"Of course. Ambrose," Monk translated that look. "I'll kill him."

He turned to Trudy. "Didn't we have an appointment someplace?" he fibbed. "You know, the, um, testing for mono! That's it, I forgot. Well, we'll just be going—"

He clasped Trudy's shoulders gently.

"Get your hands off her!" cried Mrs. Monk.

Startled, he let go.

"Adrian," said his mother, hands on her hips. "College is corrupting you. Look at you, carousing with this sort of woman!"

"Mom!"

Trudy smiled against her hand. "Mrs. Monk, I assure you I won't be corrupting him tonight. We just stopped by my dorm for…a drink."

"I know my son," was the cold reply. "He doesn't drink."

"I'm _fine_, Mom," said Adrian through gritted teeth. "You don't have to check up on me." He held up a finger. "Wait. I'll rephrase that. Don't you check up on me. Ever."

"Adrian, don't be obstinate. You know I'm only looking out for your wellbeing. Now, go back to your room, and I'll bring you some dinner. It's getting late." Her voice grew louder. "Don't forget to plug in your _night-light_. I know you don't sleep without it."

She cast a defiant look at Trudy, as if daring her to stay with Monk now.

Monk's mouth opened. A garbled denial emerged; then he froze up. He simply turned around and stared at one of Trudy's framed exposés, waiting for his love life to finish imploding.

**[Berkeley senior literally dies of shame.**

_Berkeley, CA—Adrienne Monk, 23, lately of his mother's house, was letting himself think he'd found happiness when his mother, aiming for his cradle, missed and sent him flying into the grave instead. Adrienne's best friend, the hall closet dust mop, was unavailable for comment._]

"They misspelled my name," he said thickly before a second tug jerked him away from the wall.

Had Trudy gone? Had she helped herself to his parting gift yet?

But it was she who turned him around; her eyes said, _Wait. It's all right_.

She walked toward him and put his hands back on her shoulders. Head held high, she faced the irate mother hen.

"Adrian Monk has never needed a nightlight since I've known him."

_Trudy, what're you doing? If you say that, she'll think that we—_

"You can't know how he sleeps!" blared his mother.

Trudy gave her a Cheshire smile. "Oh, Mrs. Monk, of _course _I can." And she capped off her statement with a salacious wink.

The breath left Monk's lungs.

_Oh, my God. Oh my God oh my God she is _lying. _She is _lying _for me. Just like that. And a lie like _that_! _

Trudy plowed ahead into the appalled silence. "He's told me that these last few weeks, he's never slept better in his life."

His mother put a hand to her heart. "You—you scarlet woman!"

This only seemed to encourage Trudy. "Well, it's not like we'd need a nightlight anyway…sometimes we just leave the lights on…"

His mother let out a sound reminiscent of a hiccupping bullfrog.

When the sheer shock of what had happened began to subside, Monk steadied his shaking hands. Two things had been made abundantly clear. One, he in no way deserved Trudy Ellison. Two, if she hadn't run away from his mother, how could he?

Adrian straightened his collar resolutely. "Excuse me, Trudy. I'll handle this."

He faced up to his mother for the first time that day.

"Mom, this is Trudy's room. As long as she says I am welcome, then I stay. _And you don't._"

"Adrian, you can't know what you're getting into!"

"No, I can't, since you never helped me prepare for it." He felt burning and glowing all at once. His hands held steady on Trudy's shoulders.

His mother made a sound of disgust. "Let me guess: you did her homework for her and now she's all over you. She tells you you're wonderful, just to get something from you. Well, it's about time for me to tell you about the facts of life. We'll start with—"

"Mother dearest," he matched Trudy's smile with a mischievous one of his own, "Don't you know what time it is? Nine o'clock. I'm sorry, but you have to go. You're keeping me up past my bedtime! I know how strict you are about that."

Trudy's shoulders shook with repressed giggles.

"Don't worry," she added helpfully, "I can tuck him in."

"Trudy's good at that," Monk affirmed.

"BUT—!"

"Nighty-night, Mom."

He showed his nearly catatonic mother out the door, and slammed it shut.

They laughed together, and held each other, and life was _so_ much better.

Monk looked back to the framed article. It now read: The charmed life of Adrienne Lamont.

"Do you like it?" she asked shyly. "She was a famous jewel thief. I thought some of the phrasing was a little cliché, but it was an early start…"

Monk pulled her close and kissed her forehead from temple to temple.

"Early starts are good," he said. "They leave you more room to correct your missteps. Some things just need to take their time."

* * *

"Why is this taking so long?!"

Monk had been digging for information again, this time for three hours straight. Time was running out; she'd be leaving that day. There were some faint clues about the language, but nothing probative. Frustrated and knowing his head wasn't at its best, Monk decided to take a brief break before plunging headlong into the mass of volumes once more.

He was pensively seated at the circulation desk, doing his criminal law homework, when a shadow fell over his book.

"Hello, Drew," he greeted Trudy's ex without looking up.

Drew made a satisfied sound. "I thought you'd be expecting me."

"N-no, actually. I just knew it was you from the shape of your shadow. Your ears…" Some latent self-preservation instinct kicked in and he refrained from saying that they were an odd shape. "Uh, never mind. Could you…maybe…move just a little to the right? No, _your_ right. I can't read the last paragraph of—"

Drew slammed a hand down onto his page. "Better?" he demanded.

Monk turned away from the other man's breath, but there wasn't anyplace to go. A cart of reference books barred his path of retreat.

"To tell you the truth, Drew, it's not a whole lot better, no," Monk managed. He gingerly started to peel Drew's pinky away from the book. _Ugh, now that page will be sweaty…_

"Hey!" Drew tapped him none too gently on the chin. "Up here. My face is up here, Captain Cool. I'm _talking _to you."

_Yes, sir,_ was what Monk had in mind. He tried to say it. He wanted to say it.

What came out of his mouth, unaccountably, was, "I think you're talking _at _me."

As if he hadn't dug his grave deep enough, he added, "If you really wanted to win Trudy back, _she's_ the one you should speak to."

_Uh-oh._

Drew grabbed Monk's shoulder and shoved him around in the swivel chair until Monk was facing away from his book. Then he vaulted over the desk and loomed over Monk.

Any other time, this would have worked. Now…

"Listen up, buddy," said Drew. "I already know what she'll say. 'Oh, Drew, it's not you, it's me,'" he mimicked in a falsetto. He balled his fists. "Girls always give bull excuses like that. No, no, I came to talk to you. I want to know what you got on her."

Monk shook his head, now more baffled than afraid.

"What I _what?_ Got on her? I, I don't under—"

"Come off it, Monk! I asked around about you. You're a legend, right up there with the Loch Ness monster. You never forget anything. That so?"

Monk met his eye at last. "I never forget. Anything."

"It must have been easy," Drew said bitterly. "What'd you see her do? Was she walking on the grass? Cheating on a test? Let me guess: you caught her doing something she wanted to keep quiet. You said that for a little time alone with her it would all go away. Boom, she's yours. How _clever_."

Monk's fear fell away in a trice. He pushed his chair back and stood up. He was shaking.

"Yeah, _now _you're afraid," sneered Drew.

Monk wasn't afraid. He was _mad_.

"Detective Drew," he said hotly, "If that spiel is supposed to sum up my crime, stick with your Pre-med major. Trudy doesn't cheat on tests. And she wears white shoes around campus, so she'd never walk on the grass. Of course, I'm sure you don't really care. You'll pull any excuse out of your…you know. Posterior." His knuckles whitened on the barcode scanner. "Interesting, isn't it."

"What?" snapped Drew.

"That you would rather imagine Trudy being coerced than her being happy with someone else. If it was me being rejected," his eyes narrowed, "I would never even _wish_ that she was being hurt so I could feel better about myself. Not even deep down. Not even for the tiniest, tiniest second."

Now Drew looked like he would burst. Still, Monk's demeanor made him reconsider.

Monk cocked his head and scrutinized his rival.

"My turn, now. Here's what I think: you'll make up a story about Trudy and me that suits your ego and feed it to all of your friends. I'm unpopular, that's no secret, and everyone will hear your 'truth' and ignore mine. I'll keep Trudy, and you'll keep whatever pride you think you have." He resolutely went back to his chair and opened his book. "So, why wait? She'll only be here one more day."

Resentfully, Drew said, "I want your word you aren't blackmailing her."

"Drew. If you valued my word, you'd believe it." Monk turned a page. "And that goes for Trudy's word, too."

"Hey!"

Monk cringed. He gripped the scanner in self-defense, sure he was about to be pummeled.

His rival was not violent, though, merely a frustrated young man. Drew gave him the finger and stomped away. He elbowed the cart of books as he passed.

Monk sighed as the unavoidable avalanche of books began. Still, it was better than what could have transpired. He slowly began to shuffle the books back into order, a small flare of triumph growing in the pit of his stomach. For the first time in his life, he'd had something worth defending, and he'd done it. It was a feeling unlike any other.

A dark green book caught his eye. It appeared to be nothing special, but the sight of it tugged at some buried memory.

_The Pyrenees, Then and Now. _

He'd glanced at it before, and something nagged at him about it. A word was there, perhaps a phrase, that he tried to remember and just couldn't reach. His brain told him it was very important.

Slowly, he drew out the napkin he kept with him from the restaurant date. He looked from the paper to the book and back again.

Monk eagerly began rifling through the leaves, a theory coming into ever-clearer focus as he found the page he was looking for.

* * *

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